


Keep the Car Running

by enigma731, invisibledaemon



Series: Keep the Car Running (Universe) [3]
Category: Guardians of the Galaxy (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Avengers: Infinity War Part 1 (Movie) Compliant, Avengers: Infinity War Part 1 (Movie) Spoilers, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Established Relationship, F/M, Gamora (Marvel) Lives, Healing, Trauma
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-30
Updated: 2018-12-10
Packaged: 2019-04-30 01:09:29
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 33
Words: 243,483
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14485494
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/enigma731/pseuds/enigma731, https://archiveofourown.org/users/invisibledaemon/pseuds/invisibledaemon
Summary: Peter's got no roadmap, no established routine for how to make Gamora feel better after being murdered by her abusive “father” and resurrected after several days in some strange other realm.That’s probably a good thing, though. This isn’t exactly the kind of thing he wants to have experience with.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Helloooooooo everyone!!! invisibledaemon and enigma731 here, bringing you our first collaborative multi-chapter fic!!! This is set post-avengers 4, so there is some speculation for the events of that movie, but the focus is really on Gamora and Peter and how they deal with everything that happened in IW/is going to happen in A4. There's gonna be lots of pain, lots of feelings, lots of hurt/comfort, and most of all these sweet, sweet bbs healing together. 
> 
> Updates roughly once a week :)) 
> 
> Enjoy!

Peter ought to be exhausted.

He’s been awake for...well, an entire lifetime, technically, but at least three days by Earth’s time.

Still, he can’t sleep, can’t even sit down for more than a minute at a time, wearing a track across Tony Stark’s plush carpet as he paces back and forth. The holo in his hand still shows people in the vicinity of the lab where the Stones are being contained, the same as it did thirty seconds ago, and the thirty seconds before that, and the--

“Shit,” he mutters as he stubs his toe on the bed, sending the holo tumbling onto the overstuffed mattress. It’s well after midnight and his coordination leaves something to be desired.

He sits down when he retrieves the fallen holo, but stands back up a few seconds later, possibly the most restless he’s ever been in his life. He’s got one shot at this, has got to do this tonight or…

No. There is no ‘or.’ There can’t be. 

It’s close to two in the morning by the time everyone’s made it to their rooms. He’s clearly not the only one in the compound who can’t sleep, but he really wishes people would be considerate of his plan and not-sleep in their own goddamn rooms. 

Whatever. It doesn’t matter now. His path is clear and he doesn’t waste a second. 

The lab is all the way on the other side of the compound--certainly not the furthest Peter’s ever had to go to steal something, much less an Infinity Stone, but right now it’s far enough to send his heart pounding up the back of his throat. He’s never been much of one for worrying about getting caught, but tonight he’s hyper-aware of every breath, every step, every sound as he makes his way out of the guest quarters and down the stairs.

He glances at the holo again as he nears one of the common areas, making sure his path is still clear. No life signs on the display, but he still holds his breath and tiptoes through, hiding the lights on the readout against his chest.

Outside the night is clear and surprisingly warm, with a cold breeze and a grumble of thunder on the horizon that remind him of Missouri nights that once came with tornado sirens. Sucking in a breath, Peter glances around one more time, then fires the jets on his boots, blasting himself across the lawn as quickly as he can go.

He’s so focused on making it to the door that he nearly smacks face-first into it, but he manages to put the brakes on just shy. There’s a biometric lock on it that Peter’s betting his guest-access card isn’t going to open. 

Doesn’t matter. He expected this. 

He digs out one of the overrides he’d nabbed from Rocket’s bag and tacks it onto the lock. 

It opens with barely the push of a button. Peter shakes his head disdainfully as he enters the building, though he’s immeasurably grateful right now that Terran technology is so far behind the rest of the galaxy. 

A chill runs through him a few steps down the hall. This building is much colder, less personal than the other half of the compound. The walls are white, the floor is white, the ceiling is white. Everything is sterile and bare. It reminds him of a hospital. 

That feeling doesn’t help his heart-rate while he makes his way through, paranoia compelling him check the holo for signs of the others every few seconds. 

The Avengers have clearly never stolen things for a living, Peter thinks, as he finally arrives at the room where the Stones are being held. If they did, they would have left an actual, real live guard on duty. Pulling out his holo again, he scans the room for security. Another biometric lock on the door, which he pops open like a can of cheap Xandarian beer. 

Then there’s a network of lasers crisscrossing the room, prepared to trip an alarm at any break in the light. 

“Piece of cake,” he murmurs to himself, catching the tip of his tongue between his lips as he toggles a couple of programs on the holo, then watches the laser web go out.

After that it’s a quick few strides across the room, a third one of Rocket’s lock picks, and he’s standing in front of an open case, six unconfined Infinity Stones winking back at him.

They’re going to destroy them all. They _should_ destroy them all; Peter agrees with that. These things are too dangerous to exist. But what they _shouldn’t_ do is destroy them all before they’ve finished saving the universe, and those bastards want to destroy them while the most important person in the universe remains distinctly _un_ saved. 

He takes a breath, reining in his anger. They don’t believe him. _You’re desperate_ , they say. Searching for signs that aren’t there, creating patterns that don’t exist. Even the rest of the Guardians give him pitying looks when he brings up the fact that they can _fucking get Gamora back_.

He doesn’t need them to believe him, though. He only needs himself.

And the Soul Stone. 

He swallows, hesitating in front of it. This shiny rock is the reason Gamora is gone in the first place… the reason Thanos “had to” murder her. For a moment he’s seized with the desire to hit the Stone with the end of his blaster until it shatters into a thousand tiny pieces, as if that’s even possible; as if _that’s_ going to help Gamora.

But it won’t. Using it, though… using it will. 

Taking a breath, Peter cracks his knuckles, reaches toward the Stone--and freezes again. He can practically feel the power radiating off each one of these things, hasn’t forgotten how it felt to hold one, to have one threaten to rip him apart. There’s nobody here to share the energy with him now, nobody to stabilize him...and that’s the entire fucking _point_ , isn’t it? If he doesn’t do this, there never will be again. Nobody who matters as much as Gamora does, anyway.

“All right,” he says under his breath, looking directly at the Soul Stone again. “Just you and me, asshole. Time to give me back my girl.”

This time he doesn’t hesitate as he reaches out and closes his fist around the Stone in one smooth movement. He’s counting on his Celestial DNA to keep him alive long enough for what needs to be done, though he has no idea whether it’ll be sufficient. Then again, if it’s not, he’ll die. That’s still a better alternative than failing _again_ to bring Gamora back.

He’d been expecting physical pain; cracks in his skin, burns, absolute agony as his body is ripped apart from the inside out, like he’d felt when he’d held the Power Stone. 

Instead, he feels nothing at first. There are no burns, no pain. For half a second, he wonders whether this stupid thing is even working. Then all at once, the room around him dissolves, and he’s standing on the edge of a cold, snowy cliff high above the ground. 

“What the--” he starts, then all the breath leaves his body in a rush when he turns to the side and spots her, only ten or fifteen feet in front of him. 

“Gamora!” he shouts--or tries to. He opens his mouth but no sound comes out. He’s got no breath. His heart is beating harder and faster than it possibly ever has, but he feels cold, like he’s got no blood. 

“Gamora!” Barely a whisper. 

She’s moving towards the very edge of the cliff in an awkward, stilted way, as if she’s being pulled, but there’s no one else here. She’s beating with one fist at the air in front of her other arm and he’s never seen her this scared before. 

“Gamora! _Gamora_!” He runs to her and tries to grab her arm, pull her back, but his hand goes right through her. 

The forward momentum is too much, his balance thrown by the shocking lack of contact. Peter stumbles, lands hard on his knees, a jarring shock of pain from the chilled rock--And in that moment, Gamora falls. 

It isn’t an accident, isn’t just gravity. Her body is _flung_ over the edge, falls like a ragdoll into the bitter wind. He doesn’t think he’s ever seen her look so helpless, not even on the brink of death in space.

Peter tries to reach for her though it’s much too late, opens his mouth to scream and--The landscape dissolves again, the clifftop giving way to the valley beneath. 

It’s morning now, though he’s only just realized that it was dark before, at the top. The light is sickly pale yellow as he forces himself to look around again, knowing somehow instinctively what he’s going to find.

Her body is a scant few yards away, partly buried in snowfall, the loneliest grave he thinks he’s ever seen. 

“Gamora,” he breathes, scrambling over as quickly as he can, slipping on the ice and landing painfully again, at her side this time. 

The reality of her death is utterly undeniable now, her limbs twisted at impossible angles, skin unnaturally blue-grey and crusted with ice. For a moment he has a flash of Yondu, freezing in space, and that sends him reeling into action.

“Gamora,” he says again, sitting up and frantically digging her out of the snow, as if that’s going to make one modicum of difference. “Gamora, come on. Come _on_! I can’t fucking do this again!”

Everything begins to dissolve around him once more, and terror makes him colder than this weather ever could.

“No!” he shouts at the sky. He’s no longer got a problem with sound coming out; his voice tears through his throat even as he knows in the back of his mind that it’s pointless. “Let me save her! Let me--” 

The scene is gone. He’s back in the lab, on his knees, screaming with agony that has nothing to do with the raw scrapes on his legs or the hole that’s now searing through his palm. She’s gone, she’s gone, he had this one chance and he-- 

He blinks. Blinks again. His fingers loosen and he’s dimly aware of the Stone clattering to the floor.

“Gamora?” he whispers, tears springing to his eyes. 

She’s there. Lying in front of him, eyes closed, shivering so violently her entire body shakes, some flecks of ice in her hair and on her eyelashes. But alive. Alive. 

She’s _alive_. 

“Gamora!” He throws himself forward, cupping her face with trembling hands. “Gamora, baby, are you okay? Please--please open your eyes. Please…” 

She makes a tiny, distressed noise, but her eyes flutter open slowly. 

Peter absolutely sobs with relief. For a moment all he’s capable of doing is gaping at her, taking huge, gasping breaths as the receding despair allows air back into his lungs. It’s short-lived, though, because the next thing he realizes is that she’s still shivering, and she’s still _not_ talking, and even though she’s alive right now, there’s no guarantee that she’ll stay that way.

“Hey,” he breathes as he gets an arm under her shoulders, the other beneath her legs. His knees feel unsteady as he lifts her but not even the laws of physics are going to prevent him from doing what she needs right now. “Hey, I gotcha, I gotcha. I promise.”

There’s absolutely nothing stealthy about his movements as he retraces his steps, shouldering open doors and letting his footfalls echo in the corridors all the way back to his room without a care for anyone who might be disturbed.

He kicks the door shut behind him and, almost without thought, makes his way to the bathroom. 

“We’re gonna get you warmed up,” he murmurs, shifting her weight carefully so he can turn on the shower. The water comes from two large discs on the ceiling above the shower. At least Terran shower tech doesn’t suck. 

Gamora doesn’t respond. Convulsive shivers still wrack her body. Her eyes spend more time closed than open. 

“C’mon, ‘Mora,” he says, trying not to let his concern slip into his voice. “We gotta get you out of your clothes. Can you stand?”

She opens her eyes and looks at him, but doesn’t say anything. Figuring that’s all the answer he’s going to get, he bends and gently places her feet on the ground.

She sways, but he never fully lets go of her even for a second. “I’ve got you,” he says again, getting her ice-cold clothes off as quickly and carefully as possible. She shivers even harder when more of her body is exposed to the air. “It’s gonna be okay. It’s gonna get better in a second.” 

For a moment he considers how he’ll get out of his own clothes without letting go of her. Then he gives up and just climbs in fully dressed, guiding her carefully. She _is_ strong enough to stand, he thinks, but it’s as though her body keeps wanting to curl in on itself against the cold. 

“Here,” he breathes, as he gets her under the spray, uncomfortably warm for him but perfect for these circumstances. He keeps babbling as he runs a hand through her hair, washing away tiny bits of debris, feeling the need to talk for both of them.

“This place is nice, right? Stark owns it. I mean, I don’t think you met him? But he’s apparently, like, some kind of big billionaire hero dude on Earth.” He swallows, tries to keep his tone light. “He has an entire _fleet_ of cars and jets and stuff. He’s got _action figures_ based on him, too. Three different ones, supposedly, but I kinda thought they all looked the same.”

Peter breaks off, blows out a breath, trying desperately to keep up the facade of calm. The panic is growing in the pit of his stomach again, though, the niggling doubt in the back of his mind that she’s really here with him, that she hasn’t somehow left _her_ soul behind in that awful place.

“Gamora, please,” he tries again, his own voice sounding young and broken in his ears. “Please just say something. I don’t care what.”

“I hate the cold,” she whispers finally, voice barely audible above the sound of the water. “And the dark.”

He nearly chokes on the sound of relief that comes bubbling up, almost a laugh even though it’s not the least bit funny. “I know,” he says quietly, aware and uncaring that he’s crying. “I know you do. I’m gonna fix it.”

“Please,” she manages.

The remaining bits of ice are all washed out of her hair and Peter’s feeling marginally better about her chances of continuing to survive this. “Let’s get you dry and under a couple dozen blankets, huh?” 

He waits for her miniscule nod before shutting the water off and snaking his arm out to grab a huge, fluffy towel off the rack next to the shower. He tries to ignore the increased intensity of her shivers as he dries her, knowing the cooler air can’t feel good on her wet skin. 

“I brought clothes off the ship,” he tells her, wrapping her up in the towel and carrying her back out into the bedroom. He sets her down gently on the bed, keeping one hand on her waist to hold her steady as he digs through his bag with the other. He barely contains a gasp as his injured palm brushes against the zipper; he’d completely forgotten about the burn from the Stone up until now, adrenaline and relief completely dulling the pain. 

He ignores it for the moment. 

“Your favorites.” He pulls out a pair of her casual leggings and his old blue sweater. It’s worn and a couple of threads are coming loose on the sleeves, but she’s always loved it. 

He’d be happy just to have her acknowledge the clothes, is fully prepared to put them on her if he has to. Instead she surprises him by taking the sweater and pulling it over her head, reaching for the leggings next. While she does that, he grabs a bandage from the outside pocket of the bag as subtly as he can, slapping it onto his palm. He’s got several scrapes and cuts from the battle, some of them bandage-covered as well, so he figures this one will blend enough for her not to notice. 

“Okay,” says Peter, moving to pull back the comforter on the bed, which is officially the biggest one he’s ever seen outside of a Nova Corps hotel. “Okay, climb in?”

Gamora doesn’t say anything but she does as she’s told, sinking onto the bed and curling up on her side, knees pulled to her chest. Peter thinks she looks the most vulnerable he’s ever seen her, which is saying _a lot_ considering the past week.

“Here,” he says quickly, grabbing the extra blanket from the foot of the bed and covering her with it. There’s two more in the closet across the room, and he quickly does the same with those. She’s _still_ shivering after that, though, and he’s officially run out of things to add to her pile of insulation.

Peter runs a hand through his hair. “Okay. Okay, I’m gonna go look for some more.”

He turns to do that, finds her cold fingers on his wrist so quickly that he jumps, surprised that she’s strong enough. 

“No,” she says softly, when he turns back. “No more blankets. Just you. Please.”

The second time all night she’s spoken in complete sentences; he doesn’t think there’s a single thing she could’ve asked for that he wouldn’t give her. As it is, he’s more than happy to comply with this request.

“Yes,” he says quickly. He nods unnecessarily, and keeps nodding as he strips off his sopping wet clothes as fast as he can. He saves his shirt for last, and when he goes to pull it off it gets stuck over his head. 

It’s a thing that happens sometimes. He wears tight-fitting shirts, he has a large head, and his coordination isn’t the best. Gamora finds it funny most of the time. Once, he’d left his arms in the sleeves too and pretended the shirt was taking him over, turning him into a Shirt-Lord whose mission in life was to tickle her. He hadn’t been able to see her face, but he could hear her laugh. 

Now, he can’t see or hear her. She’s making no noise, her breathing is inaudible from this far away, and for a few seconds he’s got no way to verify that she’s still there, that this whole resurrection wasn’t just a dream or a hallucination, or that she hasn’t been pulled back by the Stone or died _again_ or otherwise disappeared and he hasn’t gotten her back after all, he’s failed, he’s failed-- 

He lets out a frustrated sob, ripping the collar of his shirt as he yanks it off violently, breathing as heavily as if he’s just fought Thanos again rather than an unruly item of clothing. 

When the shirt finally falls to the floor, he finds Gamora peering at him over the top of the blankets, one eyebrow raised a bit incredulously. 

“Sorry,” he breathes. “Sorry, it’s--” He breaks off, takes half a step toward the bed, then feels odd about being naked under these circumstances, too exposed when he’s trying so hard to keep it together for her.

Sticking a hand back into his bag again, he fishes out a rumpled t-shirt and boxers, pulling them on clumsily and finally diving into bed beside her. He hesitates just shy of touching her, settling for holding out an arm instead, suddenly afraid of hurting her. 

Gamora doesn’t waste any time, though, rolling over and burying her face in his neck, hands fisted in his shirt. Her skin is cold against him, but Peter hardly even notices, pulling her as close as he dares.

“Thank you,” she murmurs, the words muffled. “Thank you, _thank you._ ”

He bites his lip but that does almost nothing to suppress the tears that are rapidly welling up again. 

“I knew it,” he gasps, stroking her back with a trembling hand to comfort, to warm, to constantly be touching her in some way. “I knew it was you. I knew you were in there.” 

He feels her take one shaking hand off his shirt, feels the tremors as she slides it up into his hair, petting it slowly. She’s the one who’s been dead for days, and here she is comforting _him_. If he wasn’t already crying, that would do it. 

“I love you,” she says softly, her lips still cold on the skin of his neck. 

“I love you,” he echoes, voice cracking. The last time they’d said that to each other… that doesn’t matter right now. He’s going to be able to tell her again, at least a couple million more times. “So much. _So much_.” 

“Are you all right?” she asks, her hand a bit steadier as she brings it back down to cup his cheek, catching a few of his tears with the pad of her thumb. She’s still shivering, still not the soft bundle of heat he’s used to having beside him in bed, but it’s getting _better_ and he can’t contain the utter giddy relief he feels at that.

Peter huffs out a helpless laugh, leaning into her hand. “ _Me?_ ”

“Yes, _you,_ ” she insists, tucking a wet lock of hair behind his ear. 

“You were dead,” he blurts, completely unable to contain the words, the only thing that occupies his mind when he considers the concept of okay or not. “You were _dead_ , Gamora, and I couldn’t--”

“So,” she says gently, “not okay then.”

“No, no, I mean…” He takes a shaky breath, brings a hand up to cup the one she’s got on his cheek. This can’t be about him right now. She’s depending on him and he’s failed her enough already; he’s not about to fail at taking care of her too. “I mean, you were _dead_. Are _you_ all right?” 

She breaks his gaze, looking somewhere around his forehead rather than his eyes. “Yes,” she says flatly. 

Even if she were a better liar, he wouldn’t believe her. 

In the four years they’ve been sharing a bed, the two of them have had quite a few nightmares. They’ve established a pretty good routine for dealing with them: a big hug, talk about it, then go back to sleep. Hot chocolate is an optional step, but that’s generally all it takes.

But sometimes… sometimes, Gamora has mega, super bad, hardcore nightmares, or what he’s come to call “mega-nightmares” for short. The kind where she wakes up shaking or crying or both, frantic, almost out of touch with reality. These kind of nightmares are always about Thanos, and they always require a lot more comfort than their more run-of-the-mill scary dreams. 

She’s just _lived_ something far worse than the worst mega-nightmare she’s ever had. It’s going to take more than blankets and cuddling to fix this. Still, if there’s anything he’s learned--which he does do, occasionally, contrary to common opinion--it’s that arguing with her when she’s being this flavor of evasive only ever makes things worse. Instead he needs to step up, offer her the support she needs but won’t ever ask him for.

“Hey,” he says, wiping his face with the back of one hand and forcing the words out past the lump in his throat, approximating what he thinks is a cheery tone. “You know what else is cool about Stark being a billionaire?”

Gamora doesn’t answer that in words, but she does quirk an eyebrow just the littlest bit, the sort of thing he long ago learned to read as acknowledgement from her.

“We got our own mini fridge!” He points at it, a shiny chrome compartment in one corner. “No hot chocolate, sadly, but we do have some really fancy cheese and crackers. Oh! And some recovery drink he made for the rest of the Avengers. You want some of that? I bet it’d be good.”

She hesitates for only a moment, then nods, though it’s subdued. “I probably should. But _only_ if you have some too.”

“Deal,” he says easily. He stays there staring at her, though, stroking the back of her hand with his thumb and taking in her face, as if he doesn’t already have it memorized. 

“Were you thinking… now?” Gamora asks after a minute or so has passed. 

“Yes. Right.” This part does require movement, doesn’t it? “I’ll be right back.” He reluctantly disentangles himself from her but keeps his eyes on her as much as possible, still afraid she’s going to disappear if he so much as blinks for too long. 

She doesn’t say anything, just watches him as he grabs two bottles from the fridge.

“They’ve even got the logo on ‘em,” he says, showing her the stylized ‘A’ on the bottles. “We should get special Guardians of the Galaxy drinks.” 

“I will move that to the top of our calendar,” she says, not quite in the same dry, humorous tone she often says these things in, but a close enough imitation that it warms something in him anyway. 

“You’re gonna wanna sit up for this,” says Peter, waiting for her to do that before handing her the bottle. 

He forces himself to look away from her briefly, just long enough to pop the top off his own drink with clumsy fingers. When he looks up again, he freezes at the sight of Gamora, struggling futilely with the cap on hers, shoulders shaking with the effort it’s taking just to sit up unsupported. 

“Shit,” he breathes, setting his drink on the nightstand before scrambling to sit behind her. “Shit, let me do it.”

He takes the bottle out of her hands, adrenaline making the task of opening it considerably easier this time. Normally she’d be able to do it without a second thought, without even _one_ thought, probably, and he _hates_ seeing how weak she still is. 

“I’m fine,” says Gamora, snatching it back from him, but he doesn’t miss the way her hand shakes when she lifts it to her mouth to take a long swallow. 

“I know,” he lies. He settles right behind her so she can lean against him, rearranging the blankets that shifted when she sat up so they cover her as much as possible. He resists the urge to grab the bottle again and hold it up to her lips himself, aware that that would not go over well no matter how she’s feeling. 

She rests the bottle against the blankets on her lap between sips, too weak to hold it up for long. Suddenly aware that her arm is outside the blankets, he rests his hand on it and strokes up and down, making up for the lost warmth. 

She glances back at him. “Aren’t you forgetting something?” 

“Um…” He wraps his other arm around her waist, more than happy to be closer to her.

“The drink,” she sighs. “You promised you’d--”

She breaks off on a sharp intake of breath, but his heart has already jumped into his throat. 

_You promised_.

_She’s asked, hasn’t she?_

He’d promised; he’d promised, he had to, she made him swear--

“Peter.” Her voice jolts him back. She’s looking at him, face a mask of incredible sadness. “Peter, I…” 

She doesn’t seem to know where to go from there, but the words are already tumbling out of his mouth like the fresh tears from his eyes. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry, I’m _so_ sorry.” 

Gamora twists around to face him more fully, silencing him with a shaking hand over his mouth. _That_ does no favors in terms of making him stop flashing back on the past few days, but he does break off immediately.

She huffs out a sound that it takes him a moment to identify as a bitter laugh. “ _You’re_ sorry? Peter. I’m the one who made you promise. That was--You have lost _so many people_. I should never have asked.”

He shakes his head, taking her hand from his face, pressing a gentle kiss to her palm before lacing their fingers. “No, I wanted--I _want_ to be the one you trust. For anything you need.”

She’s quiet for a long moment, avoiding his eyes. “I need you to drink that, then.” She inclines her chin toward the bottle on the nightstand.

Peter sighs, feeling completely unsatisfied by this conversation and vaguely sick besides, but there’s really only one thing he can do. “Okay. Okay, I can do that.”

Grabbing the bottle, he upends it into his mouth, chugging the contents with effort.

He finishes more than half before he pauses, not registering the taste at all. 

“Feel better?” Gamora asks.

“Yes,” he lies. “You?”

She nods, but doesn’t seem to be shaking any less as she lifts the bottle for another sip. It’s going to take longer than ten seconds for any effects to be noticeable, he reminds himself. This _is_ going to help. It has to.

They’re quiet while Gamora continues to slowly sip her drink. Any conversation topic that crosses his mind seems dangerous, leading somehow to a reminder of something that happened, all of which feels off limits. 

Instead he watches her, taking in the curve of her cheek as she bends her head back, the motion of her throat as she swallows, the way her hair cascades down her back. It’s only then that he notices the way it’s drying; messy and tangled. It still looks beautiful to him, but Gamora _hates_ having messy hair. 

“Hey,” he says softly. “Can I brush your hair?” 

“What?” she asks absently, then shakes herself, seems to catch up. “Yes. Please.”

“Okay,” Peter says immediately, happy to have something he can do for her again. 

The bag’s gotten buried in the blankets, and it takes him some digging to find it, then some more digging to find her brush. It had been a punch to the gut, seeing it unexpectedly in their quarters on the _Benatar_ , and being reminded that she wasn’t there to use it. Now he’s glad he’d grabbed it, though, because he _knows_ how particular she is about her hair.

“Keep drinking,” he tells her, and waits for her to take a sip. Then, gathering her hair up, he bends forward, pressing a lingering kiss to the nape of her neck. 

She shivers in response, but this time he can tell it’s not from the cold.

“I gotcha,” he says, for what feels like the dozenth time that night, and begins brushing the ends of her hair, very gently.

“I know,” she murmurs, her weight shifting against him as she settles a bit more.

There’s something incredibly soothing about this routine of theirs. Peter has brushed her hair probably a thousand times in the past four years and he always enjoys it, always finds it settles something in his chest that he hadn’t known was restless in the first place. It’s made all the more special by the fact that hair is extremely important in Gamora’s culture, that she would not share the care of it with just anyone. 

She’d never shared it with anyone, before him. 

“Braid, too?” he asks once he’s got all the tangles smoothed out. It’s mostly a rhetorical question, but he waits for her nod before he starts. He picks the most complicated braid he knows, one she only taught him a year or so ago, to draw it out as long as possible, knowing this comforts both of them. 

“There,” he says softly, finishing with a hair-tie taken off the handle of the brush. 

She turns her head, and he’s not surprised to see tears in her eyes. He’s sure there are some in his, too. “Thank you.”

“Are you done?” he asks, reaching for the empty bottle she’s holding. Again, a rhetorical question, but he doesn’t grab it until he hears her quiet, “Yes.”

He sets it on the counter next to his still half-full one. “Do you want anything else?” he asks. She shakes her head slightly. “Let’s lie back down, huh?” 

It’s the only direction he can think to take from here. This is completely uncharted territory; he’s got no roadmap, no established routine for how to make Gamora feel better after being murdered by her abusive “father” and resurrected after several days in some strange other realm. 

That’s probably a good thing, actually. This isn’t exactly the kind of thing he wants to have experience with.

They settle under the pile of blankets again, heads on the same pillow, foreheads pressed together. It’s like he’s got an actual, physical need to be looking at her, touching some part of her at all times.

“I love you,” she whispers. 

He gently swipes his trembling thumb across her cheek to pick up a stray tear. “I love you, too.” 

Both of them, he imagines, could use some sleep. It’s the middle of the night, Peter hasn’t slept properly in days. He has no idea whether being dead counts as sleep, but Gamora seems exhausted too. They’re snuggled up in a bed, which is generally considered to be the best place for sleep to occur. 

Still, he doesn’t even suggest it.


	2. Chapter 2

There was a time when the opportunity to watch a sunrise--particularly on Earth--would have been an absolute treat. Peter doesn’t get a lot of those, living on a spaceship. He remembers missing that more than almost anything else as a kid, still gets that strange unquantifiable sense of homesickness sometimes when he thinks about crisp October mornings in Missouri. 

Today, though, he’s barely aware of the light creeping in through the window, except for the triangle of it that advances over the pillows, picking up the silver mods on Gamora’s cheeks, the purple highlights at the crown of her head. He has a sudden flash of memory, of her decision to add another color a few weeks ago, the way she’d secretly snickered for hours after he’d forgotten to protect his hands from the dye and ended up with plum-colored fingers. 

The memory makes his throat clench painfully now, as so many have in the past few days. Swallowing, he reaches out and strokes a hand over her hair, pausing to very gently tuck back a couple of tendrils that have escaped her braid.

“‘s morning,” he says, voice hoarse. Those are the first words either of them have spoken for hours, despite the fact that neither of them slept a wink the whole night. 

Gamora doesn’t respond, just turns her head slightly to brush her lips over his wrist. He lets out a small, stuttering sigh, resisting the now-familiar urge to burst into tears at the slightest little gesture. 

He’s fully prepared to spend the rest of the day--hell, rest of the week, rest of the month--like this, just lying here with her. But then he feels Gamora tense, the sound of a commotion out in the hallway reaching her (enhanced) ears a second before his. 

Someone is yelling. Peter can’t tell who, but he _can_ tell who responds. Drax’s booming voice is unmistakable.

_“I will get him!”_

Booted footsteps make their way closer.

“I’ll take care of it,” Peter says firmly. He kisses Gamora’s forehead before slipping out of the blankets, only realizing when the air hits him how much he’d been sweating under there. Completely worth it; Gamora stopped shivering sometime during the night. 

His heart starts pounding from the second he turns away from her, mind crawling with the thought that she came back to him in the night, that it’s daytime now, and what if it was all just a dream? What if he’s about to wake back into a reality where Gamora is still lying dead at the bottom of a cliff, where he’s failed her in every way?

Stopping short, he glances back at her again, then nearly jumps out of his skin at the sound of Drax’s overly-enthusiastic knock, practically threatening to break down the door.

“Quill!” Drax yells through it, banging even harder. “Quill, are you in there or has the stone turned you into ash? Qui--”

Peter pulls the door open and Drax stumbles inside, propelled by the momentum of his knocking to the point that he nearly falls facedown in the middle of the floor.

“Hey.” Peter catches him by the shoulders, grunting with the effort of stabilizing his bulk.

“Quill!” says Drax, clapping him on the back, hard. “You are alive! Did you do it?”

Peter scrutinizes his face but sees only compassion, curiosity, and, he thinks, a glimmer of hope. 

“I did.”

“Did it work?” 

It’s not Peter who answers this time. “It did.” 

He swivels around, both he and Drax looking with surprise at Gamora, who’s now standing on the other side of the bed. 

“Gamora!” he and Drax say at the same time. Peter’s about to run over and--he doesn’t know, wrap his arm around her for support, perhaps insist she get back in bed and rest--but Drax beats him to her. 

“You are alive!” he bellows, striding over to her and engulfing her in a hug that lifts her off her feet. He’s laughing as joyously as Peter’s ever heard him, clearly so happy that Peter can’t help but smile with him, even as he hurries over to them. 

“She’s alive but she needs to _rest_ ,” Peter says, trying to pull Drax’s arms down. 

“I’m fine, Peter,” Gamora says quietly, but she seems grateful when Drax sets her back on her feet. 

She doesn’t sit back down, though, makes no move to crawl back into bed. Instead she bends to pull her boots on, then crosses the room to take two more bottles of the Avengers drink from the mini fridge. She still isn’t moving with her usual easy grace, but she’s not exactly having trouble, either, which is a definite improvement. He does his best to file that away, to let it reassure him over the whispers of doubt.

“You need to rest,” he says again anyway, though with slightly less conviction than a moment ago. 

He’s about to offer another assist with the bottle cap when she pops one off herself and holds it out toward him. “I haven’t forgotten that you only had half of yours last night.”

Peter opens his mouth to protest, then closes it again, takes the bottle and swigs from it obediently. The absolute last thing he wants is to upset her right now.

“You slew Thanos!” says Drax, all of his attention still focused on Gamora. “Single-handedly!”

Gamora pauses with her hand hovering over the cap of her own bottle, suddenly looking at Drax with razor-focus. Peter hovers near her shoulder, concerned that her legs are going to give out after all, but she stays steady. “Did I?”

“That was you commanding the Soul Stone, was it not?” 

She nods once. Peter rests a hand on her shoulder. “Then yeah,” he tells her softly, before Drax can launch into an epic, and probably exaggerated, tale about the battle. It occurs to Peter that, though he’d _known_ that was Gamora helping them out, _she_ might not know for sure how it ended. “We wouldn’t have been able to kill him without you.”

Her eyes lift up to his.“Really?” 

He’s positive that she’s not asking whether or not she was really helpful. 

“Really,” he whispers. “He’s gone.” 

She stares at him for a long moment, eyes huge and hopeful as if she can’t quite believe it. Just as he starts to see relief make its way across her expression, Drax interjects, “And it was _awesome!_ We finally have our vengeance!” 

Gamora forcefully closes off her expression, a gesture Peter’s become quite familiar with. As much as she loves and trusts the others, she reserves her most private emotions for him alone. 

“That’s good,” says Gamora, managing a tight smile, just the slightest hint of a tremor at the corners of her lips. “But I didn’t do it alone. I couldn’t have done it without the rest of you.”

“And we couldn’t have done it without _you_ ,” says Peter, already thinking of a strategy for getting Drax to leave. It’s not that he doesn’t want to see the others--and among the others, he’s arguably the least pissed off at Drax right now--but he also doesn’t want Gamora exerting any unnecessary energy at the moment. 

“How many--” she starts to ask, but doesn’t get the chance to finish, the end of her sentence drowned out by Tony Stark’s voice from the hallway.

“Drax! Quill? You’d better not be in there right now or you’re gonna need to explain to me why I shouldn’t send you straight into the afterlife myself!”

Gamora tenses visibly, every muscle suddenly taut despite the fact that she’s both unarmed and still very definitely recovering. 

“Oh,” says Drax, looking the tiniest bit sheepish. “I am supposed to tell you that the man who is not made of iron is looking for you.”

“Looking for me?” Peter echoes, but his heart is already hammering in his ears. All he can see is Gamora at the cliff’s edge, all he can hear is the words _send you into the afterlife._ She was there all along, for _days_ , and Stark is the one who wanted to leave her there forever. 

He doesn’t even think about what he’s doing, feet carrying him out into the hall before he’s even realized he’s moving. “I’m right here! What do you want?”

“What do I want?” Stark says incredulously. Peter closes the door almost all the way behind him, taking a couple steps forward to meet Stark so they won’t be standing directly in front of it. “What the hell do you think I want?”

Peter shrugs, feigning a casual attitude despite the red-hot anger he can feel pulsing through his veins. “To be a giant _asshole_ , I’m guessing.”

“ _I’m_ the asshole?” Stark laughs humorlessly. “You break into my lab, steal one of the most dangerous objects _in the universe_ that we just nearly lost _everything_ to get away from a genocidal madman, leave it _lying on the goddamn floor_ for anyone to take, and _I’m_ the asshole?”

“I’m gonna go with yeah,” Peter says, barely restraining himself from screaming at him. “Considering you’re the one who wanted to leave my girlfriend trapped inside it for the rest of fucking eternity!” 

Stark throws his hands in the air and grunts in frustration. “Unbelievable. For the _billionth_ time, Quill, Gamora is _not_ connected to the Stone, or somehow _inside it_ or whatever nonsense theory you’ve cooked up this time, and you can’t risk the entire universe --”

“Oh, and you know everything, don’t you?” Peter snaps, losing his battle with the volume of his voice. 

“God, you’re delusional,” says Stark, crossing his arms and taking a couple of steps closer, not quite getting in his face. “I _get_ that you’re grieving. _All of us_ lost people this week. But that is _not_ an excuse to put everybody else in danger. Maybe they do things differently on your planet, Space-Prince, but you’re on my turf right now.”

It’s the pity in his voice that tips Peter over the edge. Insults he can take. Challenges, he can take--well, most of the time. But the sadness, the _poor guy doesn’t even know how bad off he is_ edge in Tony’s voice...it reminds him of being a kid. Of the way other adults would look at his mom when they said they were sorry about her news, about the things Peter himself had yet to be told. Of the way they’d looked at him and shaken their heads. It reminds him of the utterly helpless feeling that still fills his gut every time he remembers her illness, remembers Ego, remembers Thanos and _I had to._

His thoughts are nothing but a blur of anger and pain as he draws back his arm, preparing to backhand Stark for all he’s worth. 

“Stop!” Gamora’s voice slices in, followed immediately by her hand around his wrist. She steps between him and Stark without hesitation. “Peter, stop. You have to calm down.”

He softens immediately when he looks at her, though the fact that her hand is shaking again makes him want to punch Stark even more. He takes a couple steadying breaths, then nods; whatever she wants. If what she wants is for him to _not_ punch assholes who gave her up for dead forever, then he can do that. 

“Okay,” he says quietly, shifting their hands so he can kiss the back of hers. 

Feeling slightly steadier, he glances back at Stark and notes with intense satisfaction the look of stunned disbelief on his face. Peter slips an arm around Gamora’s waist, pulling her closer to him protectively. 

“Is this…?” Stark seems unable to finish the sentence. 

“Yeah,” Peter says tightly, controlling his tone as best as he can even while he glares at him. “She’s not trapped in the Soul Stone. Anymore. Wanna tell me how delusional I am again?”

“Peter,” Gamora whispers, a warning. 

Stark looks back and forth between them, with such a distinct look of stricken shame that Peter almost feels bad for him. Almost. But then he remembers what he saw when he held the stone, Gamora lying alone, frozen at the bottom of a cliff--

He curls his free hand into a fist, flexing it at his side. 

“I’m--sorry,” Stark mutters, the color draining from his face just as fast as the cocky facade has crumbled. He isn’t talking to Peter anymore, is looking straight at Gamora as though she might as well have manifested from the gem right in front of him. “I’m sorry, I didn’t--Look. It’s been a long few days here. No, actually more like a long few _years_ trying to keep my planet safe from your old man--”

“He’s _not_ my father,” Gamora interrupts, the words more vehement than Peter’s ever heard them, which is impressive. “He-- _wasn’t_ \--my father.”

Stark winces visibly again. “The point is, I’m sorry.”

This time Gamora shakes her head. “No need.”

“ _What_?” Peter blurts, anger flaring in the pit of his stomach again. “He owes you, like, at least an apology a day for the next hundred million years.”

“I don’t want apologies,” she insists, quiet but certain.

“All right, then.” Stark blows out a breath. “Well, if there’s anything you need--”

“Some time alone, please,” she says decisively, and waits for him to nod in acknowledgement.

She turns back towards their room. “Gamora, are you sure--” Peter swivels to follow her, then they both pause at the sight of Drax standing in the doorway, eating some cheese that must’ve come out of the fridge. 

“Just the _two_ of us,” Gamora tells him. 

“You will not even see me --”

“Come on,” Stark says, gesturing to Drax. “There’s way more of that cheese out this way.” 

“Fine.” Drax pouts, as though it’s a great concession, then goes with Stark down the hall. 

Peter scoffs, following Gamora into their room. “If he thinks bribing Drax with some cheese is gonna make up for everything--” 

“He doesn’t have to make up for anything,” she says firmly, crossing her still slightly trembling arms. 

He blinks. “He--did you hear us out there? _He’s_ the main one who said we couldn’t get you back! That I couldn’t risk using one of the Stones--”

“You _shouldn’t_ have!” Gamora says, the loudest she’s been since before… before. 

“I shouldn’t…?” Peter gapes at her, feeling as if his blood’s run cold. “Gamora, you were… Are you saying you wanted me to _leave you there_?” 

“I am grateful to not be there anymore,” she says carefully, turning her back on him as she goes to close the door of the refrigerator Drax has left gaping open. 

“Okay…” He watches her tensely, half expecting her to collapse at any moment, though she’s doing absolutely nothing to warrant that fear. He can’t get the image of her, small and scared and shivering, out of his head. He’s always been amazed by how quickly she heals. “But you don’t think I should have gotten you out?”

“No,” she says again, simply. He can practically see her decision not to elaborate as she comes back over, veering away from him and moving instead to make the rumpled bed.

“Hey,” he protests, catching the end of one of the extra blankets as she pushes it out of the way. “Don’t you think you should be getting back in it?”

“I’m fine,” she repeats, snatching the blanket out of his hands and beginning to fold it, though he can see the tremor in her hands again.

“Sure you’re fine,” Peter says skeptically. “You’re so fine that you’re just telling me it was a mistake for me to save your life.”

“It _was_ ,” she says for the third time, avoiding his eyes as she starts to fold a second blanket. “You took a huge risk, Peter. It could have killed you. It could have killed _everyone_!”

“It’s not like it was the Power Stone!” he protests. “It didn’t hurt anyone --” He almost says _anyone but me_ , but he closes his fist around the bandage on his palm. So far he’s avoided revealing that injury, hasn’t wanted to worry her, and he has a feeling Gamora finding out about that now wouldn’t help his case. 

She sets the folded blanket down on the bed with careful control, but he doesn’t miss the way her fists are clenched around it. “But it _could have_! That’s the point, Peter!”

“The point is that you’re alive!” he says desperately. “And I knew you were in there, and I knew it wouldn’t hurt anyone, and--”

“ _No_ ,” Gamora interrupts, voice much quieter than his, but something in it makes him shut up anyway. He can’t see her face, but her hands are shaking worse than before where she grips the third blanket. “You--you didn’t--” 

He hears her take a shuddery breath, hears the tears apparent in her tone, and his anger evaporates in an instant. “‘Mora,” he whispers, stepping up close behind her and resting a hand on her shoulder. “Hey, it’s okay.”

She doesn’t answer in words, instead mechanically picks up another blanket and takes a few steps away from him to shake it out. The fabric snaps against the air, the force of the motion momentarily throwing her balance a bit.

“It’s okay,” he repeats, more forcefully. “It’s okay, you’re back safe and Thanos is _dead_ , and...everything’s gonna be okay now.”

He’s been watching and waiting all morning for her to collapse, and yet when it happens, all he manages to do is freeze. She keeps the blanket in her hands as she sinks to her knees, twisting it with such force that the edge of it begins to audibly tear. Her face crumples immediately, as though she’s taken a punch to the gut. 

“Gamora,” he whispers, horrified, but all he can picture is the way she’d curled into herself on Knowhere, in the instant when they’d all thought it was over, when he’d thought for one foolish second that they might actually have won.

He’s momentarily frozen while he’s caught up in the memory, but a harsh, pained gasp from Gamora snaps him out of it. She needs him, and he’s not going to fail her. 

He throws himself to his knees beside her, heedless of the way the carpet aggravates his scrapes. “ _Mora_. C’mere.” All it takes is a hand on her side and she falls into him, face buried against his chest. Her hands are still fisted in the blanket, but he wraps his arms around her, holding her to him. “It’s okay, it’s okay, it’s okay. It’s over, I swear.” 

He’s expecting her to start crying harder, letting him comfort her while she gets this out, to finally get a release of tension and trauma and fear. And she does… for about five seconds. He can feel her back shake as she takes deep, unsteady breaths; he’s seen her suppress her tears enough times over the years to recognize the signs. 

“It’s okay, Gamora,” he says encouragingly, rubbing her back. “Let it out, I’m here, you don’t have to hide.”

Instead she sniffs once, stiffly, and wipes at her eyes as she pulls away from him, the all too familiar mask of stoicism mostly back in place. “Nothing to hide.” She inclines her head toward him. “You’re bleeding on the carpet.”

Peter looks down, realizing belatedly that he’s managed to open up one of the scrapes from the previous night, and that he’s still in his boxers. 

“Shit,” he mutters, wiping at the stain, which only succeeds in smearing it further into the impractically plush, stupidly cream-colored carpet. Serves Stark right, he decides. “I’m fine.”

“You’re not fine,” says Gamora, getting to her feet and holding out a hand, which is utterly ridiculous considering she’s the one who just collapsed roughly ten seconds ago. “You’re bleeding.”

“Yeah,” says Peter, ignoring her hand and pushing himself up painfully. The scrapes really are bleeding pretty badly, and putting weight on his injured palm is agony besides. He glances back up at her, shrugs. “So I skinned my knees fighting for the fate of the universe. Pretty sure I’ll survive.”

“No you didn’t,” says Gamora. “You didn’t have those scrapes at the end of the battle. Those are new.”

His breath catches in his throat. “How… How do you know that?” 

She’s already shaking her head, avoiding his eyes. “Forget it--forget I said anything.” 

“But --”

“I don’t want to talk about this right now,” she snaps, then presses her lips together like she regrets it. “We need to let the others know I’m alive.”

“What, _right now_?” Peter asks, but it’s pretty clear that that’s exactly what she means, given that she’s pushing her way past him to get to the bag he’d packed. 

“Yes. Did you pack any of my other clothes?” 

“I--yeah,” he says, blindsided by the way she keeps changing the direction of this conversation. She bends down and begins digging through it, still moving a lot slower than she normally would. 

He steps over and puts a hand on her shoulder. “Are you sure you’re up to going out there?” 

“Of course,” she says, voice aloof, pulling out one of her own long-sleeved shirts. 

“Are you sure?” Peter presses. “I mean, yesterday you were... “ He swallows, changes course slightly. “How are you feeling?” 

“Like I want to be wearing real clothes,” she says evasively. 

She pulls the sweater over her head without any hesitation, and Peter surprises himself by sucking in a breath, flinching. He saw her bare skin in the shower last night, of course, ought not to be surprised by the fact that it’s completely unmarked. Still, in his mind’s eye he sees her body broken at the bottom of the cliff, her color greyed by frostbite, by outright ice. 

“Peter.”

The sharp edge in her voice brings him back to the present and he shakes himself, realizing suddenly that she must have been speaking for at least a few moments he’s entirely missed. “What--what?”

“I said you might want to put some clothes on too,” says Gamora, inclining her chin toward him.

He looks down, remembering _again_ that he’s essentially in his underwear. Two reminders and he still hasn’t changed. Real smooth. 

“Right,” he says quickly, moving to stand at the edge of the bed next to her. He’s slow to pull his own clothes from the bag, surreptitiously watching her in his peripheral vision as she puts on her pants. He doesn’t miss the way she leans her hip against the mattress for stability as she lifts one foot and then the other, and it does absolutely nothing to ease the knots in his stomach.

Still, she’s giving him a knowing look when he finally emerges with real pants and a relatively fresh t-shirt, practically a challenge.

Peter shrugs, gives her his best innocent face. “What?”

Gamora just shakes her head, then turns toward the bathroom. “I’m going to wash up.”

He bites his lip and tries to swallow down the fear that he’s still failing her somehow.

* * *

Peter’s not afraid to face the others. He’s really not. They can be as pissed at him as they want, decide to banish him from the planet, or all hate his guts and never speak to him again for all he cares. 

Well, okay, he’d care if the rest of the Guardians hated him. But not enough to regret for a single millisecond what he’s done. 

Still, despite all this not-being-afraid, he’s definitely wary when he and Gamora finally emerge from their room and find their entire team, as well as most of the Avengers--which is such a lame name compared to _Guardians_ , Peter thinks--assembled in one of the compound’s larger common spaces. 

Peter happens to vehemently disagree with Gamora’s assertion that they need to show everyone else she’s alive, considering that if it was up to those assholes she _wouldn’t be_ , but hey--there’s no arguing with Gamora when she’s determined. 

Which is pretty much all the time. 

She’s showing that determination now, standing in front of a crowded room that’s suddenly gone completely silent. There’s still a tremor in her legs that she’s doing her best to hide, but her expression is completely steady, and as much Peter wishes she would have stayed in bed and let him take care of her, he’s reminded that this stubborn will of hers is one of the millions of reasons he loves her so much. 

He stands next to her, one hand hovering protectively over the small of her back, glaring almost challengingly at all the others. For a moment, everyone in the room just stares, as if unable to believe what they’re seeing. 

Then Groot’s videogame falls to the floor with a clatter and he’s running up to Gamora with a joyful--and tearful--cry of “I am Groot!” 

“Hey!” Peter warns half-heartedly, suddenly worried that Groot’s momentum will knock her off her feet, that she’ll end up getting hurt somehow after all.

Instead, Groot wraps his arms around her legs and buries his face in her stomach, babbling an incoherent stream of _I am Groot_ that makes him sound at least two years younger. Peter takes half a step forward to intervene, to tell him to be more gentle, but...there’s no denying the small, radiant smile on Gamora’s face as she returns the embrace, curling her fingers into the vines at the top of Groot’s head. 

Peter stops short, feeling a momentary pang at the sight of that--overjoyed, of course, but also ashamed and the smallest bit jealous that he’s failed so far at evoking that sort of a response from her. He doesn’t get a chance to respond, though, because the next thing he knows, Mantis runs squealing up to them, her antennae glowing as she hugs Gamora from behind.

“Oh!” Mantis exclaims, her eyes welling up with tears. It seems certain that she’s going to say something about fear or death or tragedy, but instead her lower lip quivers its way up into a smile. “Oh, _you_ are as happy as _I_ am!”

“Yes,” Gamora says quietly. “Happy to see you.”

Rocket comes over next, looking hesitant, like he can’t decide whether to make one of his usual wisecracks or simply hug her too. Finally, he settles for resting a paw on the back of her hand, where it’s still lightly caressing Groot.

They stay like that for a few beats, all of them breathing together. The moment seems poised to break when suddenly Drax’s voice comes echoing from the back of the room.

“Gamora! You are alive!” 

Rocket jumps out of the way as Drax comes barreling through, this time scooping up Groot, Gamora, and Mantis in his overly-enthusiastic embrace.

“Dude, be careful,” Peter says, stepping closer and holding his hands at the ready as if he might need to catch Gamora. “And you already _knew_ that.” 

“And now I know it again!” 

Gamora stumbles slightly when Drax releases them; to be fair, Groot and Mantis do as well, but Gamora never stumbles. Peter reaches out to steady her but Mantis, who’s still hugging her, beats him to it. 

“I’m glad you’re all alive, too,” Gamora says, quietly but warmly. 

“We thought it was impossible to bring you back!” Mantis wails, practically sobbing into Gamora’s shoulder. 

Peter wants to be angry at that reminder, but he can’t help but let most of that evaporate as he watches them all. Mantis and Groot are both crying, Drax looks elated, and even Rocket looks like he’s holding back tears. Gamora looks overwhelmed and tired, but happy too, shifting awkwardly to pat Mantis on the back and continue comforting Groot at the same time. Despite his concerns, he suddenly feels guilty that he’d been reluctant to come out here and tell the others she’s alive. 

Almost as if reading his mind, Gamora meets his gaze without letting go. “Nebula?”

“Oh,” Peter breathes, feeling even worse. Of course he should have told her sooner. “She’s fine. Well, for her definition of fine. Kraglin took her back to the Quadrant.”

“Said she’d murder anyone here who didn’t _properly_ honor your memory,” says Rocket. “Aka through more murder. Kinda think we shoulda joined her in that.”

“I’m glad you didn’t,” says Gamora, though her smile is decidedly watery now.

“Um.” 

At the sound of another voice behind them, Peter turns quickly, having momentarily forgotten that the Guardians aren’t the only ones in the room. 

Several of the surviving Avengers are gathered awkwardly on the other side of the room. A couple of them, who Peter thinks were injured during the battle, are sitting down, but everyone else is standing, staring at them with expressions that vary from contrite to happy to amazed. 

“I take it you’re Gamora?” one of them--Bruce, Peter is pretty sure--asks. 

“Yes.” She lets go of Groot and takes a step away from Mantis, offering her hand. “And you are?”

“Bruce,” the other man confirms, taking her hand and shaking it carefully. “Banner.” He takes his hand back, runs it through his hair awkwardly. “I gotta say, you make green look good.”

“Hey,” says Peter, taking a step closer and resting a protective hand against her back.

“Relax, Quill,” Rocket breaks in. “He’s just sayin’ that because _his_ green’s hideous.”

“Oh,” says Peter, remembering when the Hulk had joined the fight. “Right.” He still doesn’t move away from Gamora, though.

The Wakandans--which, Peter’s gonna have to do some serious brushing up on his Earth geography, apparently--come over next, taking Bruce’s place in front of Gamora. 

Okoye nods, dipping her head deeply. “I know a fellow warrior when I see one.”

Gamora offers a small, cautious smile and mirrors her nod. “Likewise.”

“If you need anything,” says T’challa, nodding too, “anything at all--”

“She needs people to quit asking her that,” says Peter, the protectiveness, the resentment at all of these people who wanted to _give up on her_ flaring in his stomach again.

“Babe,” she interrupts, putting a hand on his arm, leaning into him a bit like he might be the one who needs to be steadied. Then she turns back to T’challa. “Maybe the group of you could catch me up on what I’ve missed.”

“Yes!” Bruce says immediately, stepping back into the little group they’ve formed.

“We are discussing how to destroy the Stones,” says Mantis, helpfully. “There is much fear of the consequences if they are allowed to continue existing.”

“I say they let me smash them between my palms!” Drax suggests. “Like this!” He demonstrates, smacking his hands together, like he’s clapping.

“Come sit,” says T’challa, motioning toward one of the large couches.

Peter starts to protest again, to suggest that she isn’t up to hearing about the battle, or discussing the Stones that caused her so much suffering in the past, that led directly to her death. But she’s already following the others, mind apparently made up.

If he believes in her, if he loves her--and _of course he does_ \--then he owes her this. Then he has to trust her, like always.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so so much to everyone who commented on the last chapter!!! We love reading them all! Let us know what you think of this one! :D


	3. Chapter 3

He kills her in his dreams. 

Shoots her with his blaster at the Collector’s, eyes squeezed closed, blaster shaking in his hand like it’s got a life of its own, like it wants to refuse the horror of this task. He can’t watch, but he feels the energy bolt fly true, usually a comforting sensation. He hears it slice through her body, hears her sharp intake of breath and the sound of dead weight slumping to the floor. 

Peter opens his eyes, then, takes in the scene: Gamora’s body, crumpled lifeless on the floor. Because of him. Because of _him._ He’s done exactly as she wanted him to but it shouldn’t have come to that, he should have protected her, been a better leader, done _something_ more. 

And then he looks up, catches sight of Thanos, who’s smiling. Fucking _smiling._ Peter lifts his blaster again, this time without hesitation, and fires straight into that goddamned grin. 

Vengeance for Gamora is all that he can manage at this point, a tiny concession against the most profound loss he’s ever experienced in a life full of tragedy. Only the impact never comes. Instead Thanos laughs as his own body dissolves into bubbles, because it was all a ruse, he was _never_ here, and now Gamora is dead, and--

Then he wakes up, tears streaming down his face, gasping for breath, and for a moment he’s paralyzed, staring up at a ceiling he doesn’t recognize because if he turns his head and she’s not there, if he failed after all… he doesn’t know what he’ll do. 

Gamora, bless her, makes the choice for him. 

“Peter?”

At the sound of her quiet voice, he turns to see her lying next to him, right where she’d been when they fell asleep. 

He reaches out frantically with shaking hands to cup her face between them. She’s real. He slides one down to rest over her heart. She’s alive. 

The first thing he feels is overwhelming relief, of course. She’s here, she’s _alive_ , he didn’t give up on her and he didn’t fail her...except that he did. Because that’s really what counts, isn’t it? Sure, she’s here now and he’ll do absolutely anything to make her feel better, but...what she _really_ needs is for none of this to have happened in the first place. 

She needs him to have been stronger, more decisive, to have pulled the trigger the moment they’d realized Thanos had already gotten another Stone. Only he couldn’t, and she’d died, and now--Now here they are, with absolutely _nothing_ he can do to spare her that trauma. 

His thoughts shift fleetingly to the Time Stone, but even he’s not quite _that_ reckless.

“Peter,” she says again, more firmly, and reaches out to touch his face.

“Hi,” he breathes. He leans into her hand, immediately comforted by the simple gesture. It’s always this way with her; she knows just how to touch him, what to say, what he needs. 

“Are you okay?” she asks. “Bad dream?” 

“Yeah, I--” He cuts himself off, a powerful wave of guilt washing through him. What the fuck is wrong with him? Bad enough he failed to protect her before, now here he is letting _her_ comfort _him_ after she just fucking _died_. 

“I’m fine,” he insists, pulling away slightly to avoid the temptation of letting himself be soothed. He takes her hand in his, relieved that neither of them are shaking at the moment. “ _I’m_ fine. Are _you_ okay?” 

She arches an eyebrow. “I’m not the one who’s crying.” 

“I’m fine,” he repeats, wiping his cheeks. He sits up, trying to affect a casual tone. “Hey, can I get you anything? Water? Are you hungry--whoa, what are you doing?” 

She pauses where she’d been sitting too, looking at him in confusion. “Getting up?” 

“Don’t, don’t,” he says, quickly slipping out of bed and heading over to the fridge. “Whatever you need, let me get it! You lay back down, you need rest.” 

“I can _move_ , Peter,” she says impatiently, throwing the blankets off and standing up. He hurries over to her side of the bed in case she stumbles, but she doesn’t. “And I can tell when you’re lying to me.” 

“I’m not lying,” he lies. Well, he’s not completely, anyway. “You _do_ need rest.” 

She gives him an unimpressed look. “You are not fine. You had a nightmare, and now you’re lying about it.” 

“I never said I didn’t have a nightmare,” he says, staying close by her as she walks to the fridge and pulls out a water. “I just said that I’m fine--hey, let me get that.” 

He reaches for the bottle that she’s about to open. She heaves an impatient sigh, opens it herself, and drinks from it while looking at him defiantly. 

“Great,” says Peter, grief and anxiety flaring into anger. She’s being reckless, he thinks, because she wasn’t here, _she_ wasn’t the one who had to take the loss. If it had been the other way around...well he certainly _hopes_ he’s right about that. “Congratulations, your grip strength has returned to mediocre Terran levels.”

She gapes at him for a moment, clearly surprised at the shift in his mood. But then her own temper catches up, and she sets her water down on the counter, ducking into the refrigerator again. She comes up with a second water bottle, taking a step closer before demonstratively twisting the cap off. She shoves the bottle against his chest, which makes some of the water splash up onto his chin. 

“If you won’t let me help you, then at least drink this before you pass out,” she says stiffly.

“I’m not the one who’s still healing,” says Peter, taking the bottle but not drinking from it. Somewhere in the back of his mind, he knows that it would probably be helpful. True, he hasn’t died in the same way she has, but he’s still been through the whole...momentarily ceasing to exist thing. And then the being back thing, the worst three days of his life, knowing he’d survived but Gamora hadn’t, wishing himself back to oblivion. And _then_ there was the actual battle, so...yeah, his hydration probably isn’t as great as it usually is. But he’s not about to admit that when they’re supposed to be focusing on her.

“Oh, I forgot only healing people require water,” she says flatly. “My mistake.”

“I’ll forgive you if you drink yours.” 

She purses her lips slightly and narrows her eyes at him, a look Peter has fondly come to refer to as “The Gamora Glare of Imminent Danger.” It’s basically her version of a warning sign, like an animal baring its teeth or raising its fur when it’s about to attack. Only in Gamora’s version, instead of an attack, the danger is that she’s about to get seriously pissed off. 

Which, okay, often also means she’s about to attack. But when it’s directed at him it just means he’s in trouble. 

“All right, fine,” he sighs, quickly deciding this particular battle isn’t worth it. He takes a long sip, so quickly that some of it misses his mouth and splashes down his chin to join the water she’d spilled on it before. He wipes at his chin with the back of his hand. 

Her eyes zero in on it, and he realizes too late that he’s using his bandaged hand. 

“You seem to also be healing from a number of things,” she points out. 

“This is nothing,” he says casually, curling his hand into a fist as if he can hide what she’s already seen. “Just another scrape.”

She looks thoroughly unimpressed. “You think I don’t know how you got that?”

“What are you talking about?” he asks warily, torn between a desire to find out what she knows--and _how_ she knows it--and fear of having to relive any part of the past few days again.

“I’m talking about how I’m not the only one who’s been through something here,” she says. 

“Gamora, I’m --”

“Quit saying you’re fine!” she snaps. “You’re not fine. Why won’t you let me help you?” 

“Because _you’re_ the one who needs help,” Peter says desperately, grabbing her water bottle and trying to get her to take it again. 

She makes a frustrated noise, ignores the bottle, and storms past him towards the door. “What I _need_ is some fresh air.” 

“You need rest,” he argues, hurrying after her. She walks with long, determined strides down the hall. He stays close behind her, waiting anxiously for her legs to give out or her shivers to start again. “And would you slow down?” 

“We just rested for the entire day,” she says, ignoring his request and pushing open a glass door. He’s about to argue, but then they step outside and he realizes they really did sleep through the day. 

It was still morning when they crashed, after the discussion on how to destroy the Stones. Peter’s honestly not sure what the eventual solution was, or if they even had one; his focus was entirely on Gamora and making sure she wasn’t about to collapse. 

She didn’t, not until they made it back to their room when they _both_ collapsed onto the bed, finally exhausted enough to actually sleep. 

It’s sometime in the evening now, he thinks; it’s hard to tell exactly because of the artificial light that illuminates this courtyard, a different one than the one he’d gone through to get to the Soul Stone. This one is smaller, enclosed by foliage with tiny strings of lights scattered throughout. There’s a stone bench opposite the door, an arch of vines and flowers just behind it. 

It’s beautiful, he thinks immediately, the view and the smell of freshly-cut grass twisting a _home_ -shaped piece of nostalgia in his chest. Visual beauty isn’t something he appreciated much, growing up. He’d been too in his head then, lost in stories and songs. 

Now, though, since meeting Gamora...now he’s got a whole new appreciation. He’s learned to look for the way her gaze, her breathing changes at the sight of something striking. The way, after growing up in darkness, she takes in colors and views almost as if they’re a specific kind of sustenance. He’s developed a habit of seeking those things out, making sure she has an opportunity to enjoy them.

The flowers ought to be good for that, he thinks now. And the lights, which remind him in a way of Christmas decorations, though he’s pretty sure it’s entirely the wrong season for that. 

Gamora walks right past them, though, as if unseeing. For a moment Peter thinks she’s being deliberate about it, refusing to stop because she’s angry at him. Which, okay, he probably deserves. He has a feeling that he’s somehow managing to be selfish again, even as he’s trying not to, trying to focus on her. But he’d rather have her angry at him than worried about him, would rather have her argue than have her feel she needs to take care of him right now. _That_ would be too much like his memories of his mother.

Then he sees what Gamora is actually focused on, and his heart catches in his throat. Across the courtyard, the sun is in the process of setting, late evening rays casting an orange glow over the buildings, over the lawn. It strikes him immediately that the light looks eerily like the color of the Soul Stone, like the thing’s somehow managed to come to life again, like _it_ might be in the sky instead of the sun.

“‘Mora?” he says softly, reaching out to rest a hand on her shoulder, to ground her.

Instead she tenses, whirling on him in a rush, hands out in a defensive posture.

“Whoa!” he says, lifting his hands into the air. “Hey, it’s just me.” 

Her eyes are wild, scared, unfocused, like she’s forgotten where she is. This, at least, is a situation he has some idea how to handle. She often used to get this way after one of her mega-nightmares. 

She’d articulated it to him once, lying against him in bed while he braided and unbraided and rebraided her hair, a comforting routine for her; she’s been so used to horrible, scary things in her life that for a moment upon waking up, it’s easier to believe that the nightmare is real, rather than the reality. 

It’s been happening a lot less recently, so infrequent that he can’t even remember when the last one was.

That’s going to change now, he imagines. 

“You’re okay,” he says in a firm, soothing voice. “You’re alive. You’re on Earth.” 

She relaxes her arms, something in her eyes clearing up a lot faster than after a nightmare. A slight flush makes its way onto her cheeks, darker green than the rest of her skin, and he’s oddly relieved; he never wants her to be embarrassed about this kind of thing, but it means she’s back. 

“It’s okay,” he whispers, reaching for her hand. She lets him take it, lacing their fingers together. Just when he thinks they might be able to make a nice moment out of this, she stiffens again, head snapping around to the side to look at what appears to be just another bunch of trees and bushes. 

“Don’t worry--” he says, getting ready to launch into the post-nightmare routine, making her feel the stone beneath her feet, observe the landmarks around them, feel his heartbeat, all things that help ground her. 

But before he can even bring her hand near his chest, she yanks it away to make a ‘shh’ gesture, then reaches down to her hip. Her fingers close on nothing, on a sword that isn’t there, and Peter feels a pang as he remembers the last time she’d pulled it out. 

“Gamora, there’s nothing--” He stops himself this time when he finally notices it: the leaves of one of the bushes move, a couple branches on a tree are pushed aside to reveal a spot where there’s no fence, and a pathway that leads somewhere Peter can’t see because it’s blocked by the figure making her way out.

He relaxes, recognizing her from the battle. ‘Widow,’ he thinks the others call her. 

“She’s fine,” he tells Gamora, but takes a step closer to her and rests a hand on her back anyway, feeling protective of her in front of basically everyone lately. “She’s an Avenger.”

Gamora untenses slightly, but her eyes dart to the newcomer’s leg, ankle, and shoulder, making a note of where all her weapons are. 

“Sorry,” the Widow says, holding her hands up in a brief gesture of surrender. “I didn’t mean to sneak up on you.” 

Peter’s seen her fight, of course, even accepted her command during the battle, which is...more than he can say for most of the other Avengers. He _knows_ a formidable woman when he sees one, is pretty much an expert after four years with Gamora. Still, he’s struck by how small she seems now, moving to stand across from him, dressed not in a tac suit but in jeans and an oversized shirt. 

She looks back and forth between the two of them, apparently reading the situation, then offers a hand to Gamora. “Natasha Romanoff. I assume you’re Gamora?”

Peter tenses instinctively, not because he thinks Natasha means any harm, but because he’s seen how Gamora reacts sometimes when she’s lost in the past, would hate to see her do something he knows she’ll regret.

She surprises him, though, by relaxing, returning the handshake with a little smile. “I appear to be at a disadvantage here when it comes to meeting people.”

Natasha mirrors her smile. “You have a bit of a reputation, thanks to this one.” She nods towards Peter. “Apparently you are ‘a kick-ass warrior’ who could have ‘schooled us all’ during the battle.” 

“Peter,” Gamora sighs, though she doesn’t exactly sound displeased. 

He shrugs. It’s true. “I believe I also said you’re the greatest person in the universe --”

“--On all discovered and undiscovered planets,” Natasha finishes for him. 

Gamora gives him a look.

“They asked how you could’ve been controlling the Stone,” Peter says, shrugging again as though this is casual banter, as though the memory of these discussions, of trying to convince the others over and over that she could be saved, doesn’t make him want to punch something. 

“Ah.” He sees Gamora’s throat work as she swallows convulsively and he suddenly feels like punching _himself_ for mentioning that when she’d just clearly had some sort of flashback to it. 

He’s frantically hunting around for a change of subject, but Gamora beats him to it. “Is that all he told you?” she asks Natasha. 

“There were some other things,” Natasha says, no longer smiling. “Were you really raised by that monster?” 

“She hated him,” Peter says hastily, preparing to step between them if he needs to. He’s not unaccustomed to people having negative reactions upon recognizing Gamora as a Daughter of Thanos, upon remembering her past. Normally she’s more than capable of taking care of herself, even if she does tend to need reassurance afterward. Today, though...she’s unsteady at best, and he’s suddenly acutely aware of the fact that Natasha’s just lost her best friend--partner, actually, he’s pretty sure--in the fight.

Gamora holds up a hand, though, a resigned look on her face. “He destroyed half my homeworld and then took me as his prize. Raised me as his successor. And I was _good_ at it, for a while. If giving my life helped to defeat him, it was a small price to pay.”

“It was _not_!” Peter blurts, stomach churning.

Natasha, though, is focused entirely on Gamora, something he thinks is compassion in her eyes. “Whatever others might believe, I think it speaks to your strength that you chose to change your life. That you’ve used the skills he gave you to fight for what _you_ believe in.”

Peter and Gamora are both silent for a moment, processing this. Peter agrees with her, one hundred percent, but he’s not really used to other people taking this view. 

“Thank you,” Gamora says quietly. He can hear how incredibly touched she is, and he thinks Natasha can tell, too. She nods once, a silent _you’re welcome_.

And then there’s nothing else to say. 

Peter sort of feels like he _should_ say something, acknowledge her loss somehow, but he thinks better of it; that sort of thing doesn’t always go over as intended, and he’s not sure he wants to risk it right now. 

Natasha seems to have decided that this conversation is over, anyway. She takes a step back towards the path she’d come from, then pauses. “By the way, your friends are in the living area ordering ‘all of the food’ from every restaurant that will deliver here.” She points at the compound. “If you were wondering.” 

“Of course they are,” Peter sighs. He exchanges a look with Gamora, a silent _I guess we’d better go_. 

“Would you like to join us?” Gamora asks; from anyone else, that might sound like an insincere invitation given out of a sense of obligation, but Peter knows she doesn’t ask things just to be polite. 

Natasha shakes her head, though. “I’m going to keep walking. Moving helps...clear my head.” 

Peter’s about to open his mouth, about to finally offer his condolences because, no matter how awkward he might feel, he _knows_ the importance of that. He doesn’t get to, though, because Gamora beats him to it.

“I’m sorry. For your loss.” She reaches out and carefully takes both of Natasha’s hands, holding her gaze. “The Captain was a noble man.”

Peter’s breath catches in his throat, a fresh thrill of shock at the things she somehow _knows_. They are definitely going to have a conversation about this, much as he kind of doesn’t want to learn the answer. 

Natasha just nods, though, apparently unfazed. Something silent but profound passes in the night air between them. “Thank you. For the record, I’m glad your friends were able to bring you back. Steve would have done the same.”

“ _Thank you_ ,” says Peter, finally feeling a moment of vindication. Maybe the Avengers aren’t _all_ on his shit list, then. He clears his throat. “Thank you. And...I’m sorry too.”

She nods, stepping back from them. “Go and find your friends. Remember to enjoy the time you have together.”

As Peter watches, she slips into the growing shadows, more stealth in her natural movements than Drax will ever hope to teach himself.

* * *

Natasha wasn’t exaggerating. When they find the rest of the Guardians, they’re about five seconds away from using “this primitive old thing” (a phone, apparently provided by Stark) so they can use “ _this_ primitive old thing” (a credit card, from the same source) to buy all the different types of food they could find in the area. 

Peter’s starting to think it may have been a bad idea to leave them alone all day. 

He and Gamora manage to talk them down to one kind, with the compromise that they can order as much of it as they want. That might’ve been a bad idea, too. 

About an hour later, they’ve got more food than will fit on the coffee table they’re all gathered around, paper cartons and plastic soup containers teetering on the edges, an overflow pile of fortune cookies on the floor. 

“We are never going to eat all of this,” Gamora says, shaking her head in exasperation. 

“Ha!” Drax scoffs, on his second carton of noodles in two minutes. “I could eat it all single-handedly.” 

“Please don’t try.” Gamora makes a face as he stoops to lick some spilled sauce directly off the surface of the coffee table. 

Drax’s manners have always, always been deplorable by Peter’s memory of Earth standards, but he thinks he probably wouldn’t have thought twice about it, were it not for her reactions. Ravagers were never exactly the pinnacle of courtesy. 

“What?” asks Drax, catching her staring. This conversation somehow never changes, no matter how many times they have it.

Gamora shakes her head. “Did you consider whether Stark would want your tongue on his furniture?”

“He should be honored!” says Drax, picking up another carton and starting to eat handfuls of rice directly out of it.

“I will honor him as well,” Mantis says brightly, moving to also lick the table, though there’s no food spilled in front of her.

“No!” Gamora snaps, catching her by the shoulder, the movement carefully practiced to avoid any contact with bare skin. 

Her tone is unusually firm, even for this level of ridiculousness, and Mantis snaps back up in her seat, looking surprised and a little hurt.

Gamora sighs. “Can we all just...try to be a bit considerate of our hosts?”

She doesn’t have any food on her plate, Peter notices suddenly, despite the fact that the others have all been eating for several minutes already.

The others grumble in agreement, and Drax settles for tipping sauce from a container directly into his mouth, which, Peter supposes, is an improvement. Mantis mirrors him, good mood instantly returned. 

“Buncha barbarians,” Rocket says with his mouth full. Groot slurps a noodle. 

Peter leans in close to Gamora to whisper, “Let me get you something?” 

“I’m fine,” she whispers back. “Not hungry.” 

He bites his lip, concerned. “You haven’t eaten anything since…” He trails off, finds he can’t finish. “You must be hungry.”

“You’re not eating, either,” she points out. 

He glances at his own plate with a sigh. She’s right. His plate is full, unlike hers, but he’s barely even picked at it. It’s not so much because he’s not hungry, though; it’s more that this food is a particular kind of unappetizing to him. 

He had to stay with his grandpa a lot for those last few months he was on Earth. His mom was often in the hospital overnight and, as much as she said she wanted him there, she wouldn’t let him sleep on the chair next to her bed. So to his grandpa’s he went, a big farmhouse that felt cold and empty without his mom there, not helped by the fact that his grandpa couldn’t cook, so takeout was on the menu every night. 

He shakes himself. “Sure I am. See?” He scoops several bites of chicken and rice from his plate into his mouth, chewing mechanically. The flavor sends an even bigger wave of nostalgia through him, an intense mix of good and bad, all of it making it difficult to swallow.

“Sure,” says Gamora, handing him a drink as he finishes the bite with effort.

Peter takes a long swig of water and sighs. Of course he knows better than to think he can fool her, but that might just be one of the things he really never does learn to quit trying. “Okay, so it’s not my favorite food. But I’m still gonna eat it because I need to. I mean, unless you’d rather have something else?”

She shakes her head. “No. It makes no difference to me.”

His frown deepens at that. Food has _always_ mattered to Gamora, and mattered very much. He knows that she grew up with tasteless ration bars, that there was a time when any sort of fresh or novel food was a treasure. One of his favorite things over the past few years has been providing her with new edible treats and watching her obvious pleasure in trying them, the fact that her appreciation absolutely never seems to lessen. 

“Are you sick?” he asks anxiously, suddenly afraid again that there’s something wrong, something irreparably broken in her body. If she can’t eat, then...No, he’s not going to go there. He can’t.

“ _No_ ,” she says irritably, glaring at him.

“Are you sure?” he persists, scanning her face for any signs of illness he might recognize. “Does your stomach hurt?”

“I’m. Not. Hungry,” she hisses.

“What are we whispering about?” Mantis whispers earnestly, leaning very close to them all of a sudden. 

He and Gamora jump slightly--well, he jumps; Gamora jerks her head a nearly imperceptible amount--and notice that the rest of the Guardians are all staring at them while they eat, as if they’re some sort of dinner theatre. 

“Just deciding what to eat,” Peter says quickly. “Here, how about… Groot, pass that soup.” 

Groot, in a much more cooperative mood than usual, extends his vines to grab the container and hand it to him. 

“A good choice!” Drax declares. He’s got a half empty container of it in front of him that he’s been drinking straight out of. “It is delicious!” 

Drax has said that about everything on the table, as well as pretty much everything he’s ever eaten since the moment they met him, but Peter runs with it anyway.

“See? It’s delicious.” 

He takes the cap off and hands Gamora a spoon. She takes it, but makes no move to use it. 

“C’mon,” he whispers, doing his best to focus on the problem in front of him, just getting her to eat, rather than any wider implications her reluctance might have. “It’s really mild. Soup is good for you if you’re sick--or, not hungry, I mean.” 

The others are still all watching them, and ordinarily he’d probably object to that, might even suggest that he and Gamora take their food back to their quarters. Ordinarily he values her privacy more than anything else. But right now, he’s more focused on getting her to take care of herself, even if she might not like the method. And he knows she’ll want to avoid alarming anyone else, will want to preserve the facade of being just fine, particularly in front of Groot.

So when another minute passes and she still hasn’t taken a bite, he decides to play a bit dirty and raises his voice. “How’s the soup, Gamora? Is it as good as Drax promised?”

“Of course it is as good as I have promised!” Drax booms.

Gamora gives Peter another glare, this one withering enough to make his insides twist, but she grudgingly picks up her spoon and tastes the soup. “It’s fine.”

“I’ll bet,” says Peter, grabbing another container of it and popping the top off, “that I can eat mine faster than you can eat yours.”

She rolls her eyes. “I know what you’re doing, Peter. Don’t coddle me.”

“I’m not,” he says innocently. “That would imply that I’m gonna go easy on you.” He dips his spoon in, scarfing some down as quickly as he can.

“I can eat mine faster than both of you!” Drax says, grabbing his container and pouring the soup directly into his mouth.

“That doesn’t count,” Peter sighs, but Drax ignores him. Mantis takes the last container of it and starts sucking hers out through a straw; he’s not sure if she’s entering the competition or if this is just how she feels like eating it. 

“I can’t believe you’re wasting your time on the soup,” Rocket mutters, using the opportunity to steal some of Drax’s egg rolls. 

“I can’t believe you’re letting Drax win,” Peter tells Gamora, trying to sound casual and playful, to coax out her ridiculously competitive side. 

She’s still not eating, though, possibly not even registering what’s going on. She’s just staring intently at her soup, one hand clenched so hard on the table that he wouldn’t be surprised if she leaves dents in it. 

“Hey,” Peter says quietly, alarmed again. “What’s wrong?” 

She screws her face up in anger, breathing faster than usual, and all of a sudden shoves the container away so forcefully that some of the soup sloshes over the edges. 

“I don’t want this,” she hisses, shooting up and storming away without another word.

For a moment all he can do is stare after her in panic, his own stomach tight, blood cold with adrenaline. The others are looking at him, he knows, expecting some kind of explanation. But all he cares about is Gamora, and the stricken look on her face. And the fact that she _still_ hasn’t eaten.

Unable to sit here any longer, Peter scrambles to his feet, scooping as many cartons of food as he can carry into his arms. 

“Have a good night, guys,” he mutters, hurrying off in the direction Gamora went.

“Hah!” he hears Drax yell behind him. “I am victorious!”

Peter’s heart pounds all the way through the hall, all the way back to their quarters. He doesn’t know for sure that this is where she was going, finds himself haunted by doubts--what if he’s wrong, what if she’s lost somewhere inside the compound, what if she disappears, if he never sees her again, if she’s dying alone and--

He sees her as soon as he walks in, huddled on the floor between the nightstand and the wall, knees drawn up to her chest, arms wrapped around them. Her head snaps up at his approach, and he practically drops all the food he’s carrying in his hurry to dump the containers on the bed and hold out his palms in a gesture of trust.

“Hey. Just me, I promise.”

“I’m fine,” she says before he can ask, but her voice is small and quiet, and she’s shivering again. 

“I know,” he says, deciding to go with it. “So why don’t you get up and we’ll get you into bed? It’s a lot comfier there.” 

“Okay,” she says mechanically. She doesn’t move, though, not until he gently pries her arms away from her legs and helps pull her to her feet. She’s not nearly as unsteady as she was last night, but he carefully wraps his arm around her waist for support. The only thing stopping him from outright lifting her off the ground is the fact that he knows she’d protest. 

She climbs into the bed on her own, Peter hovering close by. He wraps her in a blanket as soon as she’s settled against the headboard. 

“Will you tell me what’s wrong now?” he asks softly, sweeping the food aside to sit next to her. 

She sighs, more sad than exasperated. “I told you. I’m not hungry.”

“Mora.” He leans his forehead against her temple, trying not to break down himself because she needs him to be the strong one right now. “It’s just you and me now. You don’t have to pretend.” 

She closes her eyes, her lower lip trembling slightly. It’s enough to break his heart. “I don’t want soup.” 

“Oh,” he says quickly, unreasonably relieved by that, because it’s a specific problem he can probably solve. “Well good news, none of what we’ve got here is soup. Actually it’s like...pretty much anti-soup. You never have to eat soup again if you don’t want to.” Then it occurs to him that he’s seen her eat _a lot of soup_ over the years, and she’s never reacted remotely like this. “Wait, what did soup do to you?”

She bites her lip, a muscle in her jaw jumping with tension. She’s considering refusing to answer, he can tell by the look on her face, but then she shakes her head. When she speaks, her voice is a low growl. “ _He_ tried to give me some. A part of his ploy to win me back.”

“Oh, fuck,” Peter breathes, his own stomach turning at that. He instantly regrets offering it to her, the fact that he’s even accidentally brought those memories back up for her. He can’t seem to _stop_ doing that, actually. He doesn’t want to ask her to talk about everything that’s happened, of course, but it sure would be helpful to know so he could avoid the constant inadvertent reminders.

“It’s foolish,” Gamora says darkly.

“ _No,_ ” he says vehemently. “No, no, it’s not at _all._ Look, this food’s not my favorite either, because we--we ate it a lot when--when my mom was sick.”

Her face instantly transforms from self-deprecating to sympathetic. “Oh, Peter. You should have said something. Why don’t you get something else?”

“No, no, really,” he insists. “It’s good food, and it’s actually… It’s really not that bad; it’s not like that Xandarian fish stew I can’t even look at anymore, the one Retch slipped that shit into that made me vomit for _days_.” 

Her expression darkens again. She knows this story, knows so many of his less-than-pleasant memories of his time with the Ravagers. No matter how familiar she is with them, though, she always gets equally enraged on his behalf.

“He is lucky he is already dead,” she says, quiet but fierce. 

Peter’s always loved her protectiveness--finds it pretty hot, actually--but now, seeing her react to something in the way he expects her to, the way she normally would… he could collapse from sheer relief. 

“I know you’d kick his ass,” he says warmly. “But for right now, how ‘bout you kick ass at eating these…” He considers the cartons, then grabs the one that’s got a pair of chopsticks sticking out of it, realizing that these are probably the only utensils they have. “Dumplings!” he finishes, after glancing inside. 

She sighs, but obligingly takes the carton from him. “You should eat too, though. Are you sure you don’t want to order something else?”

“I’m sure,” he says. He’d eat nothing but Chinese food for the rest of his life if it means she’ll be okay. “We’ll, uh, have to share the chopsticks, though. I forgot to bring anything else.” 

“We can do that,” she agrees, picking up the chopsticks. 

Ordinarily she’s impressively dexterous; he’s seen her use any number of unusual utensils to eat with nothing but grace. Right now her hand is shaking badly, though, and she fumbles for a few moments, picking up and dropping a dumpling inside of the carton several times. Finally she sighs, hands one chopstick back to him, and savagely skewers a dumpling through the middle with the remaining one with a little growl. 

She glances sideways at Peter. “Victory.”

He can’t help laughing, though it’s bittersweet. The very struggle is a sign that she isn’t her usual self, yet her solution and subsequent reaction is so very _Gamora_ that it actually makes his heart ache.

She takes a bite of the dumpling and her eyes widen for a moment, then she closes them against what he quickly realizes are fresh tears.

“What is it?” he asks in alarm, wondering what it is this time, what he’s done to somehow hurt her _again_. “If you don’t like it--”

She shakes her head, though, swallowing and blinking at him. “No, it’s good. It’s _so_ good.”

And then he understands, and it’s even more poignant. The first time he ever saw Gamora cry, it was in response to tasting chocolate-covered fruit. Her reaction had confused him then, surprised him that someone so strong could be so affected by such a simple pleasure. Since then, he’s seen her tear up plenty of times when she’s feeling particularly happy or safe or loved, the freedom to have that reaction without fear of consequences a luxury in itself.

“Good,” Peter echoes, leaning in to kiss her temple. “Good. I want you to have all the good things.”

“Thank you,” she whispers, eating another dumpling quickly, then leaning into him again for a moment. “I’m sorry.”

“For what?” he asks, heart absolutely in pieces as he wraps an arm around her more firmly, pulls her familiar weight into his side. “Baby, for what?”

She shakes her head, bites her lip. “Everyone is so happy that I’m back, and I--I can’t do this.”

“What?” He practically chokes, panic crawling up the back of his throat immediately. This is it, this is the other shoe he’s been waiting to have drop _all day_ , this is the part where he loses her again, after everything. “Can’t--be back?”

“ _No,_ ” she says sharply, surprising him. “No, I mean--I’m here. I _am_ back. I’m not saying I want to change that, but--I can’t just...act like none of it happened.”

“Oh,” he breathes, a shudder running through him as he tries to exhale the wave of preemptive grief that’s already started. Gamora’s shifted against him, instinctively moving to provide support he doesn’t have the heart to refuse at the moment. “Of course not. Gamora...none of us expect that from you. I certainly don’t.”

She swallows visibly. “I don’t know that Groot’s in a position to understand that. Or Mantis. Or...or even Rocket, really. They’ve been through so much too. They need time, and so do I, and…” She breaks off, shrugging helplessly.

Peter nods, mind racing for any solution to this problem. “You wanna go back to the Quadrant? We don’t have to stick around here...”

“No,” she sighs, sitting up a bit to eat another dumpling, then handing him the carton. “Something--different.”

“Okay.” He takes a dumpling for himself, eats it quickly, thinking again about his grandfather’s house, about winding backroads and Missouri farm country. And then something clicks. “Hey. You want different?”

She nods, skewering a dumpling, her hand steadier than before. “That’s what I said.”

Peter takes a breath and decides to commit to this idea. “What if I show you Earth, then? Or, you know, parts of it. My parts of it. Like I always said I would.”

Gamora looks surprised for a moment, but then she nods. “Just us?”

“Just us,” he promises, and ducks his head to meet her as she leans up to kiss him gratefully. It’s quick and gentle, just a brush of her lips against his, the salt of soy sauce and tears overwhelmed by the sweetness of having this-- _her_ \--back beside him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for all your comments. Feedback means the world to us!


	4. Chapter 4

The sun’s barely peeking over the horizon, light only just beginning to stream in through the window, but Peter’s been up for nearly an hour. 

Gamora, thankfully, has not. 

In the beginning of their relationship, it was rare for him to wake up before her. On the few occasions that he did, she would always be quick to follow, such a light sleeper that the smallest change to his breathing or his heart rate would wake her up. 

That’s gotten better over the years. Now, he can even get out of the bed without waking her up most of the time, though he generally doesn’t want to; why would he leave a bed that’s got her in it?

He’d been afraid that all that progress was going to be reversed, that recent events would make deep sleep elusive for her, but so far she’s remained sound asleep, for which he’s immeasurably grateful. She doesn’t need to add sleep deprivation to the long list of shit she’s dealing with. 

_I’m gonna take care of you_ , he promises her in his head, delicately brushing a stray curl away from her cheek. He’s gonna fix this for her, gonna get her what she needs to heal. 

What she needs right now should be easy to accomplish: a road trip, just the two of them. All they have to do is drive. There’s just one small little detail Peter had forgotten about when he’d suggested the idea. 

Road trips generally require a car. Which he does not happen to have. 

And, okay...It occurs to him that obtaining things, like a car, will probably involve money. It’s been a while--okay, more like a lifetime--since he’s been on Earth, but he’s willing to bet no Terran car broker is going to accept units transferred from his holo. 

He supposes he could try to make the argument that he deserves a car for pretty much saving the universe, but...well, asking for a Guardians discount seldom works even in space, where people are less likely to take one look at him and run in the other direction. 

Sometimes it really sucks being one of the good guys. This whole predicament would be a lot easier if he could just steal what he needs. Then again, that thought alone makes him wince apologetically at Gamora, who hasn’t managed to magically wake up at the mere hint of a resurgence of his old sticky fingers.

Sighing, he slips out of bed, retrieving his pants from their pile on the floor and pulling them on. There’s really only way to do this, and he doesn’t like it one bit.

He’s gotta ask Tony Stark for help. 

It’s not even the _asking for help from someone he’s still pissed off at_ part that he’s so reluctant about, though he’s not exactly excited about that; it’s the fact that he’s gonna have to leave Gamora here alone to do it. He’s sure as hell not dragging her out there to talk to Stark with him. She needs her rest, and she _doesn’t_ need to be around someone who wanted to leave her for dead.

He knows, in the rational-thinking part of his brain, that worrying about leaving Gamora for such a short amount of time is absurd. Thanos is gone, and even though she’s not at top strength, she’s more than capable of defending herself. Besides, this place is about as safe as any place can be by Terran standards. 

Still… He puts his shirt on slowly, drawing out the inevitable. She’s still fast asleep, lying on her side, that one stubborn curl fallen back onto her cheek again. She looks peaceful...small...defenseless. 

He shakes his head. If they’re gonna do this road trip thing--and it’s what Gamora wants, so they _are_ going to do it--then he’s gonna have to suck it up and leave her alone for five minutes. 

Catching his tongue between his lips in determination, he pulls on his boots, then finally forces himself out the door. He keeps his gaze on Gamora for as long as possible, tripping over his own feet at the last moment and just barely managing to stumble out into the hall without waking her. Blowing out a breath, he pulls the holo out of his pocket and searches for Stark’s energy signature, distinct because of the nano particle generator he insists on wearing at all times. Fortunately today that quirk comes in handy--he’s in the lab, of course. At least he’s alone.

This time Peter makes his way there in broad daylight, uses his guest card to swipe in the appropriate doors, and knocks when he reaches his destination. No breaking and entering for him right now. He’s all about showing he can play by the rules, even if those rules happen to suck.

Tony looks up at at his knock, makes eye contact with Peter through the glass observation window and sighs visibly. He buzzes the door open, though, and and turns to face it, arms crossed. “Quill.”

Peter takes a breath and does his best to push down his resentment. He’s going to need his best hustle today, and that won’t work if he’s too pissed off. He’s ruined too many jobs that way in the past. 

“Stark!” he says brightly. “Good morning! You know, I just wanted to tell you, that is the most _comfortable_ bed I’ve ever slept in.”

Stark blinks at him a couple of times, apparently astounded. “Wow, okay. What do you want?” 

Peter gives him his best “who, me?” look and is about to respond when he notices Stark not-so-subtly push a button on the screen next to him that encloses the Infinity Stones back in their case, which he’s only just noticed had been open. 

“Whatcha doin’ there?” he asks, mock-casually, fist clenched in his pocket. 

“Trying to figure out what energy signatures we need to destroy these things,” Stark says, the answer so automatic that it can’t be the truth. 

“Uh-huh.” Peter purses his lips, nods, taking a few steps closer. “Kinda looks like you’re adding a whole bunch of new security to ‘em. Wonder why you’d be doing that.”

Stark rolls his eyes. “Yeah, you caught me. I’m trying to make sure the universe-destroying Stones stay secure. How horrible.”

Peter clenches his jaw, anger flaring up no matter how much he tries to suppress it. “You know I didn’t break in _for fun_ , right? Gamora’s back. The godforsaken rocks are safe from me.”

“I’m not--” Stark breaks off on a frustrated noise, throwing his hands up in the air. “It’s not that I think you will _again_ , it’s that you could in the first place. If it’s possible to break into this case, clearly it needs to be better protected.”

“Oh,” Peter says uncomfortably. That’s fair. He clears his throat, pushing past his pride a little. “You should talk to Rocket. He knows all about how to break into and out of stuff. He’ll be able to tell you how to make it harder.”

Stark nods, a bit less stiff. “I’ll do that.” There’s a moment of uncomfortable silence between them before he speaks again. “You still haven’t told me what you want.”

Oh. Right. Peter shrugs, still trying to feign innocence. He doesn’t think he’s established a good enough rapport yet to make his actual request. “What, can’t I just want to hang out with you? I hear you’re, like, a celebrity on Earth. Hey, how about you wanna sign some autographs for me?”

Stark shakes his head. “I’m not an idiot, Quill. You really expect me to believe that you’re _here_ , with me, instead of with your girlfriend, who’s recently returned _from the dead_ just because you want to _hang out?_ ” He pauses, looks suddenly vaguely alarmed. “Wait. Is she okay?”

Peter’s stomach drops a bit at the implication that she might not be, that he might be here to get help for a very different sort of reason. His mind strays momentarily to how deeply she was sleeping, and he wonders suddenly whether he maybe should have been concerned rather than relieved by it. But he’s come this far; he’s not about to leave without doing what he intends. 

He shakes himself. “She’s fine. But she had...um...what do you call a request you make after you’ve died? Like...not last dying wish, obviously. First living--no, that just sounds weird. Just a request, then. She had a request.” 

Stark arches an eyebrow. “Yes?”

“She wants to go on a road trip,” says Peter. “You know, like...see the country. Learn about Terran culture. Spend a few weeks somewhere there’s definitely _not_ about to be a giant space battle.”

“I assume you’re not asking me to go with you,” Stark says dryly.

“No,” Peter says, probably too quickly. “I mean... She wants it to be just us. Her and me. But the only vehicle we have is a spaceship, which I don’t think is gonna fit on the roads here.”

Stark snorts. “Yeah, no. You’re gonna need a car. Which--can you even drive a car?”

“Hey,” Peter says, bristling. “You put me in the pilot seat of any spacecraft in the galaxy and I can drive it. But Earth tech is so primitive in comparison--”

“Primitive?” Stark pauses what he’s doing: pulling up what looks like an inventory of some sort on the screen. “Do you want my help or not?” 

“Yes, sorry.” Peter holds up his hands in surrender. _For Gamora_ , he thinks. He can hold back the snark for Gamora. 

Stark shakes his head and presses a couple buttons on the screen, pulling up an image of a sleek black car that, to be fair to Earth, looks a lot more advanced than the ones he remembers. 

“The best primitive Earth tech has to offer,” Stark says, using his finger to spin the image around a few times, showing it off. “Outside of Wakanda, anyway. And it’s self-driving, so you don’t have to worry about finding your way around the primitive controls.”

“I get it, it’s not primitive,” Peter mutters. Then he clears his throat. “Uh--thanks.”

He turns to leave, eager to get back to Gamora, but Stark holds up a hand. “Wait.”

“Yeah?”

“Well, for one thing, I haven’t given you the keys yet,” Stark points out, and Peter narrowly manages to contain another comment about primitive tech. “And for another, you’re going to need more than just a car.”

“Like what?” asks Peter, wondering for a moment if there’s some other form of new Earth tech involved in traveling. 

“Like, uh, money?” says Stark, parroting his tone, plus some exaggeration. “And, uh, an ID? Unless you’re planning to go to a hotel and tell them ‘hi, we’re from space, but don’t worry, we’re the _good_ kind of aliens, not the _take-me-to-your-leader_ kind.’”

“I’m not an alien,” Peter scoffs, then considers. Technically he’s half alien, and he’s spent the last thirty years in space, so by Earth standards...Plus, Gamora is going to stand out. He sighs. “Okay, I see your point. So...can you help with that too?”

“Sure,” Stark says casually, like all he’s asked for is the time of day. “When are you leaving?”

“Today, probably.”

“Just come see me before you go. I’ll get you what you need.”

“Okay,” Peter says, shoving his hands in his pocket, his gratitude wrestling with his lingering resentment. But hey, Gamora is back, the man who killed her dead… maybe he can leave the grudges and vengeance to Nebula. “Thanks, man. Really.”

Stark nods, once, then kind of looks like he wants to say something else. Peter waits for a moment, but when Stark looks back at his screen, Peter waves awkwardly and starts to leave. 

“I gotta admit,” Stark says, before Peter’s taken more than three steps. He looks incredibly solemn all of a sudden. “I’m kinda jealous.”

“Oh,” Peter says. That makes sense. He gets that a lot. “Well, Gamora _is_ the most amazing woman in the universe. I don’t blame you.”

Stark rolls his eyes. “Not that. I mean--that she got to come back.”

“Oh,” he says again, quieter, suddenly remembering that Natasha isn’t the only one who lost a friend in the battle. “I’m sorry about the Captain. He seemed like a good man.”

“He was,” Stark says, then adds with a smile that seems equal parts rueful and fond. “He’d have sided with you. About Gamora.”

Peter considers this for a moment, then nods. “Always knew I liked him for a reason.”

Stark arches an eyebrow. “A whole three days always?”

“No, no,” Peter shakes his head, the ache of nostalgia stronger than usual, probably because he’s back on Earth. “I mean...growing up. My mom could never afford any of the action figures but I had a poster! Oh, and she got me the pajamas one year for Christmas. That was _awesome._ ” He realizes abruptly that he’s rambling about a dead man--a _real_ man, not just a legend. He clears his throat. “The point is, I’m sorry. Really.”

Stark nods, something surprisingly soft in his expression now. “Go take care of your people, Quill. I’ll see you later today.”

Peter nods, then retreats quickly back to his quarters, some of the weight lifted from his shoulders at the satisfaction of having these particular logistics settled. It doesn’t last, though. A sense of trepidation blooms in the pit of his stomach as soon as he enters the hall where their room is, a dozen terrible images running through his mind at the knowledge that he’s about to walk in and see Gamora again: What if the Stone has swallowed her back up? What if she’s lying there dead? What if her deep sleep was actually a coma, or brain death?

Sucking in a breath, he bites down painfully on his lower lip and scans his card, shouldering the door open.

His heart drops into his stomach at the sight of her. 

“Gamora, oh my god,” he breathes, hurriedly closing the door behind him and climbing into bed with her, not even bothering to take his shoes off. She looks up at him but doesn’t say anything, probably because she’s too busy shaking like a leaf, curled up under the blankets. 

“You’re okay, you’re okay,” he says, slipping under the blankets and pulling her close, rubbing his hands along her back. He’s not sure which of them he’s most trying to reassure. “I’m here, you’re okay. What’s wrong? What happened?”

She shakes her head where it’s pressed up against his chest. Her trembling fingers are clinging to the back of his shirt. “I’m fine,” she says, but her voice is small again, like that first night. 

“Are you hurt?” he persists, though he can see no injuries. “Are you hungry? We have more food in the fridge. Can I get you anything?” _Please, please let me help you_.

“No, no.” He feels her take a long, deep breath, and she’s slightly steadier after. “I’m okay… Just a bad dream.”

Peter wishes he could literally, physically kick himself. He can fill in the blanks: She had a nightmare and then she woke up all alone because he wasn’t here like he’s supposed to be, and what the hell kind of boyfriend is he for leaving her alone at a time like this? 

He presses a lingering kiss to the top of her head, vowing silently to never leave her side for as long as he lives. 

“I’m sorry,” he breathes, over and over again, a litany of regret. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m so sorry.” Then he has to stop, because if he says another word he’s going to start crying, and that is the absolute last thing she needs at the moment.

She takes another breath, stubbornly sets her jaw though her body is still shaking violently. “Your boots are getting the sheets dirty.”

“Gamora,” he sighs, because he knows this evasion, remembers it from when her emotional walls had just begun to come down. Normally she’s one of the most considerate people he’s ever met, practically pathological about making sure she doesn’t hurt anyone she cares about. But sometimes, when she’s feeling particularly vulnerable, when she can’t cope and doesn’t want anyone to know it, she lashes out and criticizes him. 

“Take them off,” she insists, “or get out of the bed.”

“Okay, okay,” says Peter, holding his hands up in surrender. It takes every bit of resolve he has to tear himself away from her even temporarily, but the last thing he’s going to do right now is fight with her. Kicking his boots off clumsily, he curls back up with her, throwing a leg over hers protectively. “So. A bad dream. You wanna talk about it?”

For a moment he’s sure she’s going to refuse, with the mood she’s in. But then she takes a shaky breath, twisting the hem of his shirt in her left hand. “It took you.”

Peter blinks, thrown by how easily she’s shared that, failing to grasp her meaning. “What?”

She presses her lips together. “The Stone.”

“Oh,” he says softly. “Oh, baby. I get it. I’m afraid of that, too. But it was just a dream; it doesn’t have either of us now.”

“No, no, you _don’t_ get it,” she says, voice unsteady, like she’s putting so much effort into holding back tears that she’s got none left to hold back the words that come tumbling out. “It _wanted_ to take you. It nearly did. When you used it to get me.”

“Gamora, are you…” He pauses, heart hammering at the implication. “Are you still talking about the dream?”

She shakes her head. “It wanted to take you,” she repeats. “I didn’t let it. But then--” 

She cuts herself off, but he fills in the blanks out loud this time. “But then you woke up and I wasn’t here,” he says miserably. “And you thought it got me.”

“Yes,” she whispers. 

“God, Mora, I’m so sorry,” he says again, feeling like he’ll never be able to apologize enough. “I didn’t--” He freezes, his brain finally catching up to _everything_ she’d said. 

“Wait… You didn’t _let_ it?”

“Forget it,” she says stiffly. She’s shaking less now, her voice a lot stronger and firmer, but he’s just as concerned as he was before. 

“Gamora--” he starts, wanting to insist that she talk about. Bottling this kind of thing up only ever makes her feel worse in the long-run. 

“I said forget it, Peter,” she says in a tone that leaves no room for argument. 

“I--okay.” He takes a breath, his heart pounding, stomach a roiling pit of dread. It isn’t just the thought of the Stone trying to take him--he kind of knew that was the risk when he decided to handle it in the first place. It’s the thought that he’s failed her, _again_ , that she’s had to do something, _give_ something on his behalf, and she won’t even tell him what it is. He swallows, trying to keep down the nausea. The last thing she needs right now is for him to get sick on top of everything else. “What can I do, then?”

“Nothing,” she sighs, pushing herself up wearily. She’s not shivering as badly anymore, but she still looks positively haggard, as though the past half hour has undone all of the sleep she’s managed to get. 

The loss of contact makes him ache. “Gamora. Please let me help.”

“Nothing to help,” she insists. Pulling the elastic off the end of her braid, she quickly runs a hand through to undo it, then grabs her brush from the nightstand.

“Let me?” asks Peter, holding out a hand hopefully.

She ignores him, which is not entirely surprising, and begins to brush her own hair mechanically. “It will be at least several days before Stark has the plan and means to destroy the Stones. I want to get away from them sooner than that.”

He purses his lips, torn between being irritated at the change of subject, concerned that she won’t let him do anything to help her, and happy that, on this subject, he can at least _say_ something that will help. 

“We’re all set to leave,” he says, deciding to follow her lead for the moment and just do whatever he can to help. “That’s what I was doing when I was gone. I arranged a car and stuff. We can get out of here whenever you want.”

“Oh!” The brush pauses in her hair. She seems to relax slightly, some of the weight lifted off her shoulders, but she’s still holding back. He recognizes this posture, this behavior, though it’s another one that’s been getting increasingly rare as the years go on; she’s afraid to let herself have something she wants.

“What about our clothing?” she asks. “Toiletries? We’ll need more supplies than what’s in that go-bag you brought.”

“So we’ll head back to the Benatar and pack,” he says easily. 

“Will the others be okay without us?” 

“They are capable of looking after themselves,” Peter says, mostly believing it. Gamora looks skeptical. “Okay, so we’ll leave Stark in charge.”

Her lips quirk up at that, just a tiny bit, something in her eyes a little brighter than before. “Okay… Today, then.” She resumes brushing her hair for a few strokes, then pauses. “Wait. Do you know how to pilot a Terran car? At what age do people here learn that?”

“Don’t worry about it,” says Peter, aiming for nonchalance, though there’s still an undercurrent of guilt running through him. “I can fly--I mean, drive--anything!”

Gamora says nothing, just arches an eyebrow.

He sighs. “Okay, okay, you’re right. I don’t...technically know how. But! I took care of it. Stark’s fixing us up with a car that drives itself.”

“Fortunate,” she allows, but then goes still again, her gaze dipping away from his, focused now somewhere on the bed. “And...will I need a disguise?”

“Well.” He considers, though it’s certainly not the first time he’s thought about it. “People are gonna know you’re not human, yeah. But...most people thought aliens were kinda cool even when I was a kid? And it seems like things have gotten even more accepting since then, so...you’re probably fine.”

She shakes her head. “I didn’t mean because I’m--not human.”

It takes a moment for her point to sink in. She means the fact that she’s a daughter of Thanos. Or was. “ _Oh._ Oh, babe. If anyone recognizes you at all, they’ll know you’re one of the heroes who just saved their asses.”

She makes a noncommittal noise and he reaches over tentatively to grasp her hand; she lets him. 

“Look,” he says gently. “From what the Avengers have said, no one on Earth really knew who Thanos was before this. They would have no reason to know anything at all about…your old reputation. You’re safe here.”

Gamora nods, meeting his eyes again, but he can tell she’s not completely reassured. She almost never is about this type of thing, despite how much her reputation has shifted over the years. 

“Do you still wanna go?” he asks. “I know it’s a lot; going out into the world after all this.” A world he hasn’t really been in since he was a child, but he shoves that down. This is about her right now. 

“Yes,” she says quickly. “I want to… You do too, right?” 

“Yeah.” He does, mostly, though he’d say that no matter what he truly wanted. 

“Good.” She nods again, half to herself, it seems, and slides off the bed. He’s reluctant to release her hand, watching her apprehensively, but she’s steady again as she stands; purposeful. “Then we’d better go to the ship and pack.”

“Sure,” he agrees. She’s clearly trying to shift her focus, distract herself from whatever’s going on in her head, and he’s more than willing to go along. Having a purpose tends to help her, however short-lived it might be. 

He grabs the go-bag, holding it open so she can put her hairbrush in it, and debates for probably the fiftieth time since she’d come back whether he should give her the other thing he’s had packed in the bag. He’s no less afraid of her reaction, though, especially considering she was curled up in a shivering ball five minutes ago. 

He zips the bag up. “The ship’s not far. Let’s go.”

* * *

The Benatar is parked on one of Stark’s landing pads, which works well enough even though it’s technically intended for a jet. It’s mid-morning by the time they get there, and Peter is struck again by the distinctive smell of the sun on the grass here, the way it takes his heart straight back to a time he can barely remember.

Inside, the ship is just as he recalls leaving it, which is always comforting in its own way--reminders of all the ways they’ve made it a home over the past few years. Still, they’re not here to stay, so he moves purposefully toward his--their-- bunk, and the storage underneath. The majority of his things are still on the Quadrant, but there’s more than enough here to pack for a few weeks on the road. That’s the point of the Benatar, after all, it’s just that _the road_ is usually space, not...an actual road.

He glances back up from digging out clothes when it occurs to him that he doesn’t hear Gamora doing the same. She’s standing perfectly still in the middle of the living space, a look on her face that he can’t read. “Babe? You okay?”

She blinks and shakes herself. “Yes. I just--” She shakes her head again, looking lost.

Peter gets to his feet, moves to rest his hands lightly on her shoulders. “You just?”

There are tears in her eyes, but she blinks them back stubbornly. “It’s good to be here. That’s all.”

_Oh_ , he thinks. He’s had this feeling a few times in his life; the feeling of being back in a place you never thought you’d see again; the feeling of accepting your death, accepting that you’ll never be able to come back to the place you consider home, and then you _get to_.

It’s a feeling that tends to put things in perspective. 

He leans in to kiss her forehead, blinking back tears himself. While he’d never fully _accepted_ that he wouldn’t get to see her again, even when she was dead, he’d certainly _feared_ it. 

“I know what you mean,” he murmurs, pulling back and wiping away a tear that she hasn’t been able to hold back through sheer force of will. 

Her eyes widen and he tenses a second later, mind flying to the same place, he’s guessing, hers has gone: to the last time they were on this ship; to the promise he’d made and failed to keep. 

Gamora pulls away first and clears her throat, avoiding his eyes. “We should get to packing.” 

“I’m pretty much done,” he says quietly, struggling to hold it together. “I’ll grab the stuff from the bathroom.”

He hides behind the bathroom door, taking deep but quiet breaths. He’s determined not to break down in front of her, not when she needs him to be the strong one, but dammit if it’s not getting harder by the hour. 

It takes him all of five seconds to grab the few toiletries he has here. Gamora’s are more elaborate--hair things and skin things and makeup things. He actually knows what most of them are by now, knows all of her most intimate rituals almost as well as his own habits. Still, he’s struck by how important all of these things are to her, which gives him a flash of an alternate possibility, of having to put them away without her, if she were to never need them again. 

That image hits him like a punch to the chest, and he half-staggers backward to sit on the edge of the toilet bowl, knees suddenly feeling like jelly. He balls his hands into fists and presses them against his temples until the pressure’s actually painful, the only thing keeping him grounded, keeping him from a total meltdown. He hasn’t needed to do this since his mother was--

“Peter?” comes Gamora’s voice, and he barely manages to snap his head up before she pushes the door open.

At any other time, she’d probably notice how he’s feeling immediately, would see straight through any attempts at a facade of normalcy in a moment like this. Right now, though, she’s focused on something she’s carrying, which he identifies an instant later as one of Nebula’s cybernetic hands, gruesomely mangled.

“What is this?” asks Gamora, her voice tight. It’s very clear that she knows _what_ it is. That isn’t really what she’s asking.

“It’s--” Peter jumps to his feet, immediately horrified that she’s been the one to find it, particularly in her current condition. “It’s fine, it’s fine. Stark made her a new one. She’s fine, I promise.”

She presses her lips together into a tight line as she meets his eyes. “Does she know that _I_ am fine?”

He freezes, combing back through his memories to try to figure out if he ever messaged her _goddamn sister_ to tell her she was alive. “Oh, fuck.”

“ _Peter_ ,” she hisses. “You didn’t tell Nebula I’m okay?”

“I was a little preoccupied!” he says, but he feels terrible. He knows he doesn’t have an excuse; telling Nebula should have been one of the first things he did. “I’m sorry, Gamora, _fuck_. I’ll tell her right now!”

“Don’t bother,” she says, marching out of the room, still clutching the severed hand. “I’ll call her.”

He starts to follow her, then hesitates. Loath as he is to let her out of his sight, she generally prefers to talk to her sister in private. Fortunately, it’s an easy compromise; the commlink isn’t far from their bunk, and he’s able to hear her voice even if he can’t see her.

He occupies himself with the finishing touches on their bag, adding some of his socks and the rest of Gamora’s hair products. She really does have a lot of them. He’s teased her several times about how she almost needs a separate bag just to hold them all.

He’s barely been at it half a minute, carefully listening to the sound of voices that, for the most part, he can’t understand, when he hears Nebula’s very clear shout of, _“Two days?! And you’re telling me now?!”_

He dashes into the living area immediately, skidding to a halt at Gamora’s side. She’s looking pleadingly at an indignant Nebula on the screen. 

“Hey,” Peter says to Nebula, before either of them can get a word in. “Don’t blame her. It’s my fault, I should’ve told you.”

Gamora glances sideways at him, looking torn between throwing him under the bus and protecting him as she usually does. Somehow that only makes him feel worse.

Nebula scoffs. “She needs you to speak for her?”

“No,” says Gamora.

“She was healing!” Peter protests simultaneously.

That earns an even more dramatic look of disgust from Nebula. “Perks of being able to just repair and recharge, I guess.”

“I’m sorry,” says Gamora, her tone practically pleading. “I’m sorry for what Thanos did to you. I’m sorry that he-- _used_ you to get to me. To get the Stone.”

On the screen, Nebula’s face twists into an outright sneer. “What else is new…”

“He’s dead now,” she insists, though Peter doesn’t miss the way her voice breaks a bit on those words. “And I’m alive.”

“And everybody lived happily ever after,” Nebula drawls in an exaggerated parody of a movie narrator. “I couldn’t care less.”

“Hey!” Peter protests, familiar protectiveness flaring in the pit of his stomach yet again, superseding the fact that he absolutely knows better. “You wanted her back too! You were the one who was all about avenging her!”

“Those,” says Nebula, “are two separate concepts.”

Gamora recoils slightly, as if Nebula has punched her, and for a moment Peter considers punching _her_ through the screen, or reaching over and turning off the holo, ending this conversation right now. 

He knows Nebula lashes out. He knows that for as reticent as Gamora used to be (and occasionally still is) about emotional vulnerability, Nebula is a hundred times worse. He knows that they’re all dealing with this shit in different ways. But nobody hurts his girl, not even her sister. 

“You--” he starts, but quickly cuts himself off, stunned into silence by the sight of actual _tears_ sparkling in Nebula’s eyes. He’s never, in the four years he’s known her, seen her even come close to crying. Gamora looks surprised, too, though less so than he does. 

Nebula’s face contorts into an even angrier one, and she swipes firmly at her eyes. “I’m glad you’re okay,” she says to Gamora, sincere even though her tone is venom. “Now I’ve got people to kill.” 

Then the screen disappears. 

The second Nebula is gone, Gamora sighs and buries her face in her hands. Peter’s instantly on her, arm wrapped around her shoulders. “It’s okay. She didn’t mean that. Well--she did mean the part about being happy you’re okay! But--”

“I know,” Gamora says, shaking her head. “Nebula’s just like this. But she should’ve been the first person we told.”

_She would have been if you hadn’t run off to find the others_ are the words that immediately come into his mind, but he chokes them back, horrified at himself. It’s a petty lie and he knows it, nothing more than the defensiveness he’s never quite managed to outgrow coming back to haunt him. He _wants_ desperately to absolve himself of the responsibility in this, except that would mean allowing her to take the blame entirely on herself. And he is _not_ going to have any part in making her feel worse than she already does about any of this.

Clearly the only solution is to change the subject. “She knows now, that’s what counts.”

She still doesn’t quite lift her head, exhaling a shaky breath, and Peter can’t tell whether she’s crying. “He _tortured_ her. Because he knew I wouldn’t stand for it. And he was right.”

“He’s dead now,” says Peter, with more confidence than he feels. 

He should encourage her to keep talking, should be here to listen, to help her process all of it, but even this little bit is making his knees feel weak again, his throat tight and his stomach churn. It’s her tone more than anything, the brokenness in her voice, the way it sounds _exactly_ how he’d felt in the moment he’d learned that she was gone. 

He clears his throat, puts on his best--if not most genuine--cheery voice. “Hey, your hair stuff’s all packed! Makeup too. Wanna double check me?”

It’s a flimsy attempt and she sees right through it, judging by the way she raises her eyebrows when she finally looks up. But she sighs and says, “Sure,” then makes the short journey back to their bunk. 

“It’s all there,” she says after barely glancing into the bag. 

“Great!” he says, trying to keep up his happy tone. “I think we’ve got everything then!”

“Almost.” There’s a small drawer built into the wall near the top of the bed and she pulls it open, picking up a couple of knives and small swords. She examines them dispassionately, presumably deciding which one or ones to take. 

Gamora loves her weapons; cherishes them even, the way Peter cherishes his Zune, and his Walkman before that. Seeing her look at them now with such disinterest adds another tear to his heart. It’s almost worse than seeing her not care about the flowers. 

He watches her sadly for a moment before remembering that there may be something he can do to help in this case. Or, possibly, hurt more. 

It’s inevitable, though. He can’t keep this from her forever, even if it is something that’s going to hurt; and if it’s going to _help_ , the best chance for that is probably now. 

“I have something for you,” he says at last, dropping the falsely cheerful voice in case this goes south. She turns to watch him while he unzips the go-bag’s side compartment and slowly pulls out the Godslayer.

Gamora stiffens, staring at it, practically stricken. It’s not entirely a surprise, especially given the way his own stomach clenches at the sight of it. The feel of the smooth metal, of the weight of it in his hand gives him another painful flash, this one of actual memory. He runs his fingers over the hilt and tries not to think of the night before they’d finally taken Thanos down, before he’d had any idea that there might be a way to bring her back, that a part of her might still be alive somehow. He tries not to think of lying in the bunk a few feet away, clutching the sword to his chest like it might paradoxically have been able to patch the gash the news of her death had left in his heart. He tries not to think of the hours he’d spent assuming this would be one of the only pieces of her he’d have left for the rest of his own life. 

Instead he holds it out to her, wiggling it a little when she hesitates. “Here. Take it. It missed you.”

She reaches out, stops, hand hovering in the air, shaking ever so slightly. “Why would you keep it?”

Peter blinks, surprised by the question, not understanding. “It’s yours. You love it.”

“But I was--” 

She cuts herself off, but it doesn’t take more than that to start Peter’s hands shaking slightly too, made all the more obvious by the answering tremors in the sword he’s still holding. He can’t think about that, can’t think about _any of this_ right now. 

“I knew I’d get you back,” he says, swallowing down his anxious nausea. He doesn’t tell her that the fear that he wouldn’t be able to was nearly overwhelming, or that he’d have certainly kept the sword and her other belongings no matter what. The idea of getting rid of anything that belonged to her--

_Belongs_. She’s alive now and that’s all that matters. 

Gamora’s still just staring at the sword. He’s beginning to fear that this was a mistake after all when she finally takes it, holding it tentatively in front of her with both hands and looking at it like... well, like she thought she’d never see it again. 

She turns it over a few times, inspecting it with much more care than she’d shown the other weapons, before extending the blade and actually gasping aloud. 

“I thought…” Her throat works as she runs a finger along the blade. “I was afraid it was broken after…” She bites her lip, cutting herself off again, but the allusion is more than enough to start his heart pounding. 

“It wasn’t,” he says simply. He watches her finger as she practically caresses the sword, focusing on the fact that she’s alive and clearly happy to have her beloved weapon back. 

“Thank you,” she breathes, finally looking back up at him. There are tears in her eyes again, but also a certain warmth Peter _knows_ is reserved for him. 

It’s not a new thing, wanting to burst into tears at the sight of her looking at him like that, but today it’s heightened, so much more intense after fearing--no, assuming, at least for a while--that it would never happen again. Normally he doesn’t care if Gamora sees him getting emotional, actually loves the fact that she’s always been so accepting of it. But right now...right now he can’t take that risk, can’t open that door even a little bit, because if he does…

What he _wants_ to do is kiss her, gather her into his arms and never let go, allow himself to crumble and be held. But the last part of that would be selfish in the extreme, so he can’t risk any of it, can’t take the chance.

Instead he claps her on the shoulder awkwardly, like they might somehow have fallen four years backward, to a time when every touch was tentative. “You’re welcome.”

Gamora blinks, something shifting in the air between them. He can sense her surprise, but only for a moment. Then she seems to make a decision of her own. She retracts the sword in one smooth motion and swipes at her eyes, then squares her shoulders in a rough approximation of her usual confidence.

“All right,” she says firmly. “We have our supplies. Let’s go meet Stark.”

Peter blinks at how quickly she’s closed herself back off. He wants to apologize, wants to offer her something better, something more than he’s been able to so far. But she’s already heading out, and all he can do is follow.


	5. Chapter 5

The car, while nothing on the technology of most ships, is still way more advanced than the Terran vehicles Peter remembers from growing up. Given, it’s been a long, long time since he sat in one, but despite the differences to what he remembers, and the tension and turmoil still roiling inside him, he’s gotta take a minute to geek out. 

“These seats are super nice,” he says, shimmying around in his. The front seats are large and covered in a soft leather, and they recline so far they’re more like lounge chairs than car seats. There’s no real backseat, just a small area where they’ve stored their bag. Their inventory is now complete with “Avenger IDs,” a credit card, and a couple cellphones because Earth still doesn’t have proper holotech. 

“They are more comfortable than the ones on the Benatar,” Gamora admits, though she’s not nearly as into this inspection as he is. She’s sitting in what he supposes would be called the passenger seat, not that the distinction is really important in a self-driving car. She’s dressed in her typical battle-ready outfit, complete with the Godslayer in its rightful place on her hip; still tense, closed-off.

He’s going to fix this, though. He has to.

“Um, car?” he says tentatively, because Stark had said everything in it is voice activated. “Turn on.”

Instantly, the motor hums to life, and the screen in the middle of the dashboard lights up. 

“Good afternoon, Mr. Quill,” a disembodied voice that seems to come from the dash says. 

Now, Peter’s been in talking vehicles before, though they’re actually pretty rare in space. The tech is considered so old as to be hokey, but he gasps with excitement. 

“Gamora,” he breathes, grinning at her. “ _It’s Knight Rider_.”

She smiles, just slightly, but some of the tension drains from her shoulders as she shakes her head fondly. 

The AI starts to interject. “My name is Tues--”

“I can rename you, though, right?” Peter asks. “Please?”

“...I suppose.”

He does a mental fistpump. “Your name is Knight Rider! Oh, we’re gonna be just like David Hasselhoff.”

“The name of the car in the television show _Knight Rider_ was actually K.I.T.T.--”

“Shh.” Peter puts his finger over the dashboard, as if it’s a mouth he can shush. “Knight Rider.”

“I will respond to Knight Rider, Mr. Quill,” says the car, in what Peter could swear is a mildly judgmental tone. Fitting. Of course Stark would design a douchey vehicle. 

Still, he’s not about to let that get in the way of how pleased he is with this whole setup, even _better_ than one of this childhood dreams come true. He turns to Gamora, grinning. “Hey, should I tell it to call me Michael? Or Mr. Knight? Like the guy in--”

“Peter,” she sighs, though she sounds more exasperated than distressed and hey, he’ll take that.

“Okay, okay.” He holds his hands up in surrender, but if being irritated at him is keeping her mind off other things, well...He turns back to the dashboard, as though it might be rude to talk to the car while looking elsewhere. “You can call me Star-Lord, Knight Rider.”

“Very well, Mr. Lord,” says the car, in the same tone.

Peter shakes his head. “That again? I told Stark, Star-Lord is fine.”

“Mr. Stark created me, but I am not he,” says the car, then adds, “Mr. Star-Lord.”

He sighs. “You know what? Fine. I can live with that.”

“Excellent, Mr. Star-Lord,” says the car. “Now, did you want to go somewhere?”

“Oh,” says Peter. “Right.” Going on a roadtrip does involve getting on the actual road at some point, though right now he thinks he might be content to sit here playing with the car all day. Plus there’s the small matter of _where_ they’re going to go first. He’s been so busy making the trip happen that he hasn’t really considered that.

“Um…” 

Gamora is looking at him expectantly, because after all this was his idea, and _he’s_ the one who used to live on this planet. But that was thirty years ago, and he never saw much of it outside Missouri. His mom wasn’t exactly rich, so traveling was rare. 

“How do you feel about seeing a city?” he asks her. He may have never been to a big city on Earth, but he certainly knew _of_ them, and they’re right next to what he remembers being the biggest one on the planet. 

Gamora shrugs. “That’s fine.” 

Not a very enthusiastic response, but she’ll lighten up once they properly start the trip, he’s sure. 

“Okay, Knight Rider,” he says, satisfied with a decision made. “Take us to New York City!” 

“Where in New York City?” the AI asks instantly. “It’s a rather large place.”

Peter sighs, slumping back in his seat. He bets if Knight Rider had a face he’d be smirking. “I don’t know. A hotel.”

“What hotel?”

He groans, but out of the corner of his eye he sees Gamora smile in amusement again.

“I don’t know,” he says, much less put-out than he was a second ago. “What’s a good one there?”

“This is Mr. Stark’s favorite,” Knight Rider says as a holo-image of a fancy building labeled “The Mark” pops up in front of the screen. 

Peter hesitates for a moment before reaching out to touch the display. He half expects it to zap his hand or something, though he’s not sure why after seeing Stark use plenty of the things himself. In reality it’s like a much older, clumsier version of the tech he’s accustomed to, and he figures it out pretty quickly.

The hotel’s page shows a gallery of huge, ornate rooms that remind him a bit of the quarters the Nova Corps keeps--kept, probably, he realizes with a muted stab of horror--for them on Xandar. Swallowing, he tries to focus his attention back on the images, on the fact that they’re _here_ , on Earth. The rooms themselves seem simple enough, with large, comfortable-looking beds and different selections of art on the walls, probably by someone famous. It’s the bathrooms that really catch his eye, though. They’re _huge_ in comparison to what he’s accustomed to most of the time, living in space. One of them is even made entirely out of marble.

He’s about to just agree with the suggestion when it occurs to him that fancy accommodations probably come with an equally fancy price tag. Scrolling further through the site, he locates the prices, and practically chokes. True, it’s been a while since he considered Earth currency, but he’s pretty sure one night costs more than his mom ever made in her life. 

“Um.” He swallows, glances over at Gamora. “What do you think?”

She shrugs a shoulder. “Is this customary for a Terran hotel?”

He doesn’t respond how he wants to, which is: ‘how the hell should I know?’ Instead he says, “For a fancy one,” as if he’s got any knowledge about what typical hotels are like here. 

“It’s up to you,” Gamora says. He can’t read her tone, or her face, which is seriously stressing him out. He can normally read her better than anyone, can predict her tastes and moods for every occasion, but they’ve never _done_ this before. He’s not sure what she wants out of a visit to his home planet after being resurrected from the dead a couple days ago. 

He’s a little out of his element here, so he searches his brain for something he _does_ know. Gamora likes baths. He knows that. And this hotel looks like it has some of the fanciest bathtubs he’s ever seen, on any planet, and he wants to give her the best. Plus, Stark had told them in no uncertain terms not to worry about money, which was infuriatingly nice of him, so…

“Yeah,” he says. “Take us there.”

“Absolutely, Mr. Star-Lord.”

Then the garage door opens and they’re pulling out, faster and smoother than he expects. 

“It really is a nice car,” Peter mumbles as they zip around the compound. 

“I heard that,” says Knight Rider, and this time the tone is most definitely smug.

He sighs, shaking his head a bit, then glances over at Gamora. She’s still being uncharacteristically quiet, her jaw set as she looks straight ahead. It’s a definite contrast to her usual enthusiasm at seeing anything new, at exploring new places. He thinks yet again of all the progress she’s made in the past four years, in allowing herself to enjoy things, and allowing others to share her enjoyment. A fresh swell of anger rises in his stomach at the realization that this is yet another thing Thanos has stolen from her, from _them_ even in death. Then it occurs to him that this is the longest she’s been out of bed since...well, since before, and the resentment changes to concern.

“You okay?” he asks her finally, aware that he’s staring at her, and that the silence is turning awkward.

“Fine,” she says mechanically, without turning to look at him.

Peter sighs. “Are you sure?”

This time she does turn, but only a couple of inches, an eyebrow arched in challenge. “Why would you think otherwise?”

“You’re quiet,” he points out, though it’s not like she’s usually all _that_ talkative. Still, he means overall. Her entire presence feels muted. Diminished, somehow.

“You and the car have been talking more than enough for both of us,” she says tartly, then relents a bit. “I guess I’m just...thinking about the others. You really think it’s all right to leave Groot so soon after...so soon?”

He panics a bit at the reference, but relaxes when he realizes that at least this is a problem he can help her with right now. 

“Yeah, I do,” he says in the most calm, soothing voice he can muster. “He’s got all the others. They’ve got _each other_. They’re gonna be fine.”

She doesn’t look convinced, so he reaches over and takes her hand; she lets him, thankfully, though she doesn’t reciprocate as warmly as she normally would. He tries not to let that bother him; it’s gonna take time for things to return to normal. He knows this. 

“The whole point of the trip is to get away from everyone for a little while,” he reminds her. “So we can be…better when we go back. Besides, it’s not like this is the first time we’ve been away from them.”

Which is probably why the others hadn’t been entirely surprised when they said goodbye earlier. It’s been rare and usually only for a couple days, when the two of them needed privacy. It’s also usually for more fun reasons than why they need privacy now, but… It’s at least not unprecedented. 

Rocket, surprisingly, had been the most hesitant about their announcement, asking if Peter was thinking about moving back to this “backwater planet,” which in turn had panicked Groot. Peter bristled at the term but assured them that his home was on the ship with them and then, after Gamora hugged them all one last time, they were on their way.

“I suppose,” she says, though she still sounds unconvinced. 

Peter turns her palm upward in his, tracing the lines of it with a fingertip and watching as she shivers a bit. He’s struck suddenly by how small her hand looks in his, how delicate her fingers seem, despite the strength he knows she carries in every millimeter of her body. 

“Gamora,” he whispers, practically aching with how much he loves her, how much he wants to help her, and how utterly incapable he feels of even beginning to touch the horror of the past few days. 

She sighs heavily, relenting further. “It’s just--It feels...selfish. Taking off on a trip when they’re all still dealing with--things.”

“ _Gamora_ ,” he says again, heart breaking at the very thought that she might still think she owes anything to any of them at a time like this. “Gamora, you are the least selfish, most generous person I have ever--”

She stiffens at that, pulling her hand away abruptly, then drags it down her face, shaking her head. “Don’t say that.”

“Why--” he starts, then cuts himself off. It doesn’t matter why. She’s clearly not in the mood to hear her praises sung, which isn’t especially unusual even if it bothers him more than usual today. “Okay, fine. Let’s be practical about it, then. When my mom got sick, she had to spend a lot of time at the hospital getting treatments. At first I got mad about it because she wasn’t around to play with me after school. One time I threw, like, a total tantrum. Screamed at her about it like that was gonna change anything. You know what she said?”

Gamora doesn’t answer in words, just raises her eyebrows in a silent question.

“She told me she had to get better so she could play with me more,” says Peter, suddenly starting to regret this analogy. It’s painful to remember, and the ending sort of seems to negate the message, now that he thinks about it. He shrugs. “I didn’t like her answer then, but I get it now.”

“I don’t have cancer,” Gamora says stiffly.

“No.” _Thank fucking god_. He really doesn’t need to be thinking about all the other ways she could possibly die. “But you-- _we-_ -need to get better so we can play with Groot more.” Except Groot really doesn’t do much playing anymore, besides video games. “So things can go back to how they usually are.”

“If you think so…” she says skeptically. 

“I do,” he says firmly. “Look, we’ll call them all the time, okay? And if we need to go back, we’ll go back. Simple. But trust me, this’ll be better for everyone.” 

She finally seems reassured. He’s not naive enough to think she’s completely convinced, but he’s satisfied for now.

“You know what we need?” he says, taking on that affected cheery voice again. “Music. Knight Rider, give us some tunes!” 

“What kind of _tunes_?” the AI drawls. 

Peter freezes, suddenly realizing that, for the first time in thirty years, he’s not limited in his song choices. That realization sends a fresh thrill of panic through him that he has neither the time nor the will to unpack right now, so he swallows it down and adds it to the laundry list of things he’s not going to think about. 

“The best kind, obviously,” he says. When the car responds with silence, he sighs and adds, “70s, please.” 

There’s another beat of silence, then Knight Rider finally says, “Yes, Mr. Star-Lord.”

A moment after _that_ the sound system on the dashboard hums to life, filling the car with a bright string melody at near-deafening volume. 

“Quieter!” Peter yells, glancing over at Gamora, who’s grimacing a bit. This can’t be fun with her enhanced hearing, he knows.

“Yes, Mr. Star-Lord,” Knight Rider says again, lowering the volume.

It only takes another few seconds, though, to realize that this music is utterly unfamiliar. It’s not just a song that he hasn’t heard, it’s the wrong style entirely, completely unlike any of the pop or rock hits he’s accustomed to. 

“Okay,” says Peter, “what the hell is this? I said 70s.”

“This is Symphony No. 11 in D major,” says Knight Rider. “By Mozart. Believed to have first been performed in the year 1770.”

“Oh, for--” Peter throws up his hands, suddenly wondering if Stark has somehow managed to program his own attitude into this car. He doesn’t miss the way Gamora’s lips are twitching, though, and that’s the only thing that stops him from getting seriously pissed off. “ _Nineteen_ -seventies, Knight Rider.”

“You did not specify that, Mr. Star-Lord,” says Knight Rider, but changes the music as requested.

The song that starts playing this time definitely has a guitar, and a beat, and lyrics--something about old times and memories. The melody seems unfamiliar at first, but the more he listens, the more it tugs at something in the pit of his stomach until he’s forced to acknowledge that he _has_ heard it before, just...not in what feels like a lifetime.

“Knight Rider,” he says finally, “what song is this?”

“I Remember a Time,” says the car. “By Blue Ash.”

Peter nods; that sounds vaguely familiar, though he doesn’t think it was ever one of his mother’s musical staples. Still, just the opportunity to hear something different…

“How many songs do you have access to?” he asks curiously.

“Currently on the air, roughly 115,000,” says Knight Rider. “But if I access all of my available databanks, well upwards of one million.”

Peter leans back against the seat, fighting the urge to hyperventilate. “Holy _shit._ ”

“Breathe, Peter,” says Gamora, resting a hand on his arm.

Her voice jostles him back to reality, and he turns to grin at her, hoping it covers the fresh multitude of emotions currently threatening to overwhelm him. “I’m good, I’m good. Just--This roadtrip is gonna _rock._ Literally.”

“The genre of this song is pop,” Knight Rider interjects.

“Shhhh,” Peter retorts, putting his hand on the dash again. “I can’t hear you, we’re listening to tunes.” Then he settles back, deciding that music is the best thing he could get emotional about right now.

* * *

The rest of the drive is quiet except for the music. That’s not entirely unusual for Gamora on long trips, and Peter’s not exactly feeling super talkative himself, so it doesn’t concern him any more than the rest of her behavior. 

At least, not until they actually get into the city. 

Her silence grows tenser the closer they get, downright strained as they drive through the tall buildings and crowded streets. Her grip on the armrest is almost strong enough to rip it off.

“Relax,” he says, resting his hand over hers. “What’s wrong?”

“I’m fine,” she says automatically, loosening her grip. 

He can’t get anything else out of her, so he leans back and resigns himself to trying to calm _himself_ down, because he’s not feeling so great about this either. It’s nothing specific that he can pinpoint… Could be the crowds, could be worry about _her_. Could be the fact that he’s _on freaking Earth_ for the first time since he was a child. 

Given, it’s a place on Earth he’s never been to before, but that’s a whole different kind of anxiety in itself. This is his home planet; the other Guardians treat him like he’s an expert on it, but there’s so much about it he doesn’t know. Like this...this _place_. It’s nothing like where he grew up. And it’s a lot different than he remembers in the movies. He’s thinking _Ghostbusters_ may not have been an accurate portrayal of the city, after all. 

He pushes all that down, though. This is not the time to freak out, not when he needs to be steady for Gamora. Besides, he’s been to plenty of cities before, even if they were on other planets. There’s no reason for this to be any different. 

The hotel is every bit as big and overwhelming as it looked in the pictures, which is not helped by the fact that all of the staff seems to think they’re here as ‘personal guests of Mr. Stark.’ He does decide that Knight Rider is perhaps slightly less douchey than he initially thought when he discovers that they’ve been assigned one of the rooms with the marbled bathtubs, apparently because of the amount of time they’d spent staring at that particular picture in the car. Still, he’s too antsy to sit around in a hotel when they’re here in the city, and Gamora doesn’t seem any more ready to settle down. 

So now, having dropped their bag in the room, Peter finds himself leading her toward Central Park, which is _definitely_ a thing he remembers hearing about on TV. He’s pretty sure it’s supposed to be really romantic or something, but regardless it should hopefully give them something to do.

“Hey, you want a hotdog?” he asks, stopping at a stand as they pass. He buys two without waiting for her response, slathering ketchup and mustard on his. 

“A what?” asks Gamora, watching him curiously.

“A hotdog,” Peter repeats, holding hers out and wiggling it encouragingly when she doesn’t take it right away. Deciding to demonstrate, he takes a bite out of his and groans happily; this is one Earth food that lives up to his memory.

She finally takes the thing out of his hand, but continues looking at it warily. “Are we...eating dog?”

“No, no,” he assures her. “It’s, um…” He glances at the vendor, who shrugs. “It’s some other kind of meat. It’s not a dog.”

“Okay…” She takes a small bite, chewing thoughtfully. She smiles slowly. “It’s good,” she says, then takes a bigger bite. 

He grins, elated. Maybe this is actually working! She’s trying new foods, one of her favorite things to do, and actually enjoying it. He’s making her happy again, it’s _working_.

“Whoa!” A voice rings out from somewhere next to them. There’s a young girl maybe ten feet away, pointing at Gamora. “Is that an alien?”

Her mother quickly grabs her arm and pulls her along. “Of course she’s an alien, but it’s rude to point!” 

Just like that, Gamora’s smile disappears. 

“Hey, it’s no big deal,” Peter says quickly, hoping to head this off. “It wasn’t a bad thing! It was barely even a thing. The kid sounded impressed.”

“Let’s move on,” she says flatly, walking away. 

He sighs but has no choice but to follow, keenly, depressingly aware of how tense she is beside him; how she keeps glancing around as if waiting for someone to jump out at her; how she hasn’t eaten one more bite of her hotdog. 

It gets more congested the closer they get to the park, so many people on the sidewalks that it’s difficult to move sometimes. Most of them walk by without sparing them so much as a passing glance, but there are plenty who pay more attention to them.

Instinctively, Peter wraps an arm around Gamora’s shoulders, pulling her in protectively close to his side. To his surprise, that makes her stumble, and he lets go to catch her arm. “Whoa, you okay?”

She tugs her arm away and shoots an irritated look at him. “Yes, aside from the fact that you grabbed me and knocked me off balance.”

On the one hand, he knows that she’s right. Gamora’s gotten significantly more comfortable with public displays of affection in the past few years, but generally not unless she’s truly relaxed, which at the moment she definitely isn’t. Still, his anxiety insists that she would normally be more graceful than this, that he shouldn’t be able to knock off her equilibrium so easily, even if he’s surprised her.

“Sorry,” he says instead of any of that, knowing that pointing out his concerns will just make everything worse. He’ll just have to try harder to distract her from her discomfort. He has to find a way to make this fun for both of them, or else what is the point at all?

On the corner opposite the park, there’s an assortment of street vendors set up. Moving closer, Peter realizes that the selection of wares is all based on superheroes, many of whom he recognizes as members of the Avengers. 

“Hey look!” he tells Gamora, with an excitement that’s not entirely false. He can’t help thinking about how much his mom would have loved this, toys and art based on _actual_ superheroes who _actually_ exist. 

“Hey, you like the Avengers?” one of the vendors calls to Peter, beckoning them over to his table.

“They’re okay,” says Peter, though he goes to look at the things after reassuring himself that Gamora’s following. She keeps her head down, letting her hair block her face as much as possible. 

“Got portraits of ‘em all!” says the vendor, pointing to his assortment of cheap-looking canvases, most of which read ‘Iron Man’ or ‘Captain America’ down at the bottom. “Even the new ones!”

“New ones?” asks Peter, and then the next thing he knows, the other man is holding up a very crude approximation of his own mask, the name scrawled across the bottom proclaiming ‘Space-King.’

“Are you kidding me?” Peter says, rolling his eyes. “It’s Star-Lord, not Space-King.”

The vendor gives him a condescending smile. “No, it ain’t. It says it right there: Space-King.”

Peter narrows his eyes, tempted to put on his mask and _show_ this guy that he knows better than a painting what his damn name is. But then he notices him giving Gamora a strange, searching look, and figures it’d be better to move on.

She didn’t react at all to the portraits, or the mistaken title, not even with amusement or annoyance, but he’s determined to find something to distract her here. He doesn’t see a booth selling swords or chocolates; that would be his best bet. But he’ll work with what he’s got.

“C’mon,” he mutters, hand hovering over her back to guide her without touching her. “Let’s try this one.”

The next table has an assortment of action figures, including one of a tree that he’s assuming is supposed to be Groot. He snorts as he picks up an Iron-Man one, sans helmet. The paint on its face looks like it was done by a drunk child (he should know; he’d been a drunk child more than once). 

“We should totally get this for Stark, right babe?” 

Gamora lifts her head and gives him an incredibly forced smile, clearly not entertained.

“Hey, what about this one?” he says a little desperately, grabbing what he’s assuming is supposed to be an action figure of himself. “It looks way better than all the others, right?”

“Yes,” she says tonelessly. “You must be very proud.”

“C’mon,” he cajoles. “It’s at least kinda cool, right? Look at all this stuff.” 

“What is there for me to look at?” she asks pointedly, nodding toward the various tables, both hands clasping the buckle of her belt, like that might help ground her somehow.

Only then does Peter realize that in all of the merchandise, all of the arts and crafts and trinkets that seem to have been made impossibly soon after the battle, there isn’t a single representation of Gamora. How could there be, when she wasn’t there? There aren’t any pictures of her, there isn’t any news footage, because she was dead, commanding the Stone from...somewhere else. 

Suddenly he feels sick again, wishes he hadn’t wolfed the hotdog down quite so quickly because now his stomach is actually threatening to rebel. Swallowing, he catches Gamora looking at him with concern and plasters on the biggest smile he can manage. 

“Look, it’s Drax!” he says brightly, holding up what appears to have originally been a Hulk figurine, repainted with red zebra stripes. Puffing out his chest, Peter does his best approximation of Drax’s voice. “That is not me, that is a figurine.”

Gamora shakes her head, doesn’t quite smile.

Peter’s about to try even harder, mug it up even more, when the vendor taps him on the shoulder and snatches all of the figurines he’s holding back. “You gonna buy any of these, or you just wanna play with ‘em?”

“Well, I was _gonna_ buy them all,” he lies, glaring at the guy. “But now we’re just gonna go buy some from somebody else.”

He turns his nose up and guides Gamora away. “How could a guy selling an action figure of me not _recognize_ me?”

“It is tragic,” she says absently, head down again, but eyes darting everywhere. Peter’s stomach turns when he realizes the reason; apparently even if that vendor is incapable of putting two and two together, some of these other people aren’t. 

“Are they Avengers?” he hears someone ask, and turns to see a group of teenagers not even bothering to hide the fact that they’re staring. 

“They must be. Look at the girl, they’re totally aliens.” 

They’re not the only ones who have caught on. There’s a couple sitting under a tree who are pointing, a few families gaping and whispering, and an assortment of people with their phones pointed at them. 

Even just a week ago, Peter would have been thrilled by this. Sure, none of these people seem to know him by name, or even the fact that he’s a Guardian, not an Avenger--which he still maintains is way cooler--but hey, they recognize him! Now, though… He just can’t seem to shake this queasy feeling, the sense of _wrongness_ about all this. This is not what he imagined when he pictured showing Gamora his home planet. 

He’s gotta make the best of it, though. 

“Isn’t this awesome?” he says, putting on his biggest, cheesiest grin and waving at the staring people. “I told you people would see you as a hero!” 

“Does _alien_ mean hero here?” she asks dryly, but Peter hardly hears. He’s too busy grinning at the crowd, doing his best to get into this act.

And that’s the thing--When it comes to acting, particularly faking happiness, Peter is _good_ at it. Growing up with the Ravagers meant learning very quickly that letting any sign of weakness show was just inviting instant trouble. So now he’s a master of light-heartedness, of playing the fool, making jokes when he’d rather fall apart and _believing it_ the whole time too.

That’s why it doesn’t take long to lose himself in the act of mugging for the cameras. He starts with just a grin, then moves to posing with his hands in his jacket pockets, like he’s pretty sure he remembers action heroes doing on half-forgotten Earth movie posters. What he _wants_ to do is pull out one of his blasters and do a total Han Solo pose, but he’s still got enough functioning brain cells to recognize that for the disaster it would be. Instead he gives in to temptation and activates his mask, enjoying the gasps that draws from the crowd. 

He turns back toward the portrait vendor and does finger guns instead of real ones. “See? Like I said. The name’s _Star-Lord._ ”

That ought to be the moment of ultimate vindication, one of the most satisfying things he’s ever done in his life, only he never gets there. Instead he’s distracted by the sound of a sudden scuffle behind him and all at once the facade of false revelry is shattered.

Spinning around, he’s just in time to see Gamora land a vicious roundhouse kick against the solar plexus of a guy who’s more than twice her size and who’s apparently had the poor judgment to put his arm around her while attempting a photo. The blow sends him airborne, flying several feet into the sea of onlookers, knocking two other people down in the process.

Gamora turns and takes off at a run.

“ _Fuck_ ,” Peter hisses, turning off his mask and shoving through the crowd to chase after her. He resists the urge to haul off and punch the guy who’d touched her without her permission, but he’s already lost sight of Gamora and he’s got no time to waste. 

Besides, that asshole may have gotten too touchy, but Peter knows the blame rests squarely at his own feet. 

He bursts out of the stunned crowd that’s gathered and sees Gamora out of the park and halfway across the next street. He curses again and follows as fast as his legs will carry him, mentally berating himself all the while. 

God, _how_ did he let this happen? He was supposed to be watching her, taking care of her, making sure she’s okay! He’s been so careful the past couple days to keep an eye on her and now, the first time they go out in public since this whole goddamn ordeal, he completely and utterly _fails_. 

“Fuck,” he pants again, the fact that he’s got a task to focus on the only thing keeping him from bursting into tears. “Gamora!” 

She either doesn’t hear him or chooses to ignore him. She’s still nearly a block ahead of him and getting farther every moment. 

He debates for all of two seconds before giving in and activating his rocket boots. She runs _so much_ faster than him, and while he’s pretty sure she’s heading to the hotel, he can’t risk losing her. Not again, in _any_ sense of the word. 

The boots are still on their highest setting from being in battle, and between that and the adrenaline running absolutely wild through his veins, it’s not exactly a controlled movement when he leaves the ground. The jetpacks send him careening into the air, directly across the busy street. He shouts in surprise, shoulder bouncing off the bumper of a taxi that’s stopped at a light. He fumbles for control, but the impact knocks him back to the pavement a few feet away, injured palm making painful contact with the ground. He scarcely has time to react to the immediate stab of agony, though, narrowly managing to roll back up onto the sidewalk and avoid getting hit by a car that’s apparently trying to speed through all of the chaos.

By the time he gets to his feet again, he’s managed to completely lose sight of Gamora, because of course he has, of course he has, _of course he has._ She is too much for him, too good for him, deserves better. He was _always_ going to fail her, probably should have known that from the start, probably _has been_ failing her all along without even realizing. That particular condemnation plays over and over again in his head, punctuated by his racing heart beat-- _you failed, you failed, you failed._

For a moment he considers just giving up, maybe actually throwing himself in front of one of the cars and letting Gamora take care of herself. But he knows immediately that he can’t do that. Even if it might be better for her, it’s not what she’d want. Instead he forces himself to start moving again in the direction of the hotel, digging his fingers into his throbbing palm and focusing on the pain, because that’s somehow more tolerable than panic or guilt.

He’s out of breath by the time he finally reaches the hotel, shoulder aching, hand still _throbbing_ , but he hardly notices. He’s got no space in his mind for physical pain when he still can’t see Gamora. 

She’s not waiting for him outside the hotel, as he’d been foolishly hoping she might be, nor is she in the lobby. The entire ride up the elevator, he feels like he could throw up, sick with guilt and fear. If she’s not in their room…he has no idea what he’ll do. They didn’t bring those phones Stark gave them, and he doesn’t know if she has her holo on her or if she’d answer it even if she did. He’ll have no way to get in contact with her. 

But then, maybe that _is_ what she wants, after all. Maybe she did realize that she deserves better, that he can’t help her, that she doesn’t want to be with him-- 

His thoughts are, mercifully, cut off when he opens the door to their room and sees her. 

“Gamora,” he breathes, barely resisting the urge to collapse from sheer relief. 

The relief lasts less than a second, anyway; she’s here, but she’s _not_ okay. 

There are about a dozen places to sit in here. There’s chairs, the bed, an actual couch. But despite all that, Gamora’s just standing in the middle of the room, arms wrapped around herself, looking so helplessly lost that his heart shatters more. 

She’s also trembling again. He knows it’s probably more from over-exerting herself when she’s still healing than from being cold, but he grabs a blanket off the bed and wraps it around her shoulders anyway.

“Hey, it’s okay,” he says soothingly. “You’re okay.”

She accepts the blanket, clutching it with unsteady hands, but shrugs off his touch. Her eyes are red-rimmed and her voice is shaky, but her glare is intense. “I see you managed to tear yourself away from your gaggle of admirers.”

He recoils, hurt, but he knows he deserves that. “I’m sorry,” he says desperately. “I thought it would be good for you--being admired.”

“They weren’t admiring me,” she snaps. “They were _gawking_ at me, like I’m some kind of attraction!” 

“You don’t know that!” Peter blurts, not actually because he doubts her, but because it’s far less painful to assume she’s mistaken than to confront what he _knows_ is the truth. 

She throws her hands up, panic flaring fully into fury. “Typical. Of _course_ you’d know better than I would, because it’s _all about you_.”

“ _What_ is about me?” he asks, stung despite himself, clinging to any sense of rationality by a thread. “This whole trip is for you!”

“Yet you’re the only one enjoying it,” Gamora points out. She’s stopped shaking now, her movements resolved into the dangerous grace he’s used to seeing when she’s preparing for a fight. She unwraps the blanket from her shoulders and hurls it violently toward the bed, which feels like a painfully clear gesture of rejecting his support.

“Maybe if you’d try for like five minutes!” The words come tumbling out, anger far faster than the actual thought-making part of his brain, the way it always, always has been. He knows almost instantly that it’s a mistake, but of course the realization comes just a little bit too late, and now there’s no way to take it back. Just like every other fuck up in his life.

“If _I_ would try?” Gamora stalks across the distance between them, until they’re separated by mere inches. She’s had an actual sword to his throat before, of course, but Peter doesn’t think he’s ever been so afraid in her presence. “Try what, Peter? Try to be more like you, playing to the crowd? You’re being a _child._ ”

Peter flinches like he’s been hit, actually feels the wind knocked out of him. She’s right, because of course she’s right, because _of course_ she’s seen straight through the facade he’s spent a lifetime building. No matter what he does, no matter how many times he saves the galaxy, inside he’ll always be the scared child at his mother’s bedside, failing the most important woman in the universe in the moment of her death.

He swallows hard, willing himself not to be sick. “If you’re gonna leave, just do it.”

“If I-- _what_?” She blinks at him, apparently taken aback. 

“If this is you--leaving me,” he says, forcing the words out past the horrible lump in his throat, “please just get it overwith.”

“Peter--” She shakes her head as if to clear it, looking so stunned that he allows a modicum of relief to flow through him. But then her eyes are watering and she looks even more lost than before, still angry but confused and unsettled too, and _oh god_ now he’s gone and made it worse again. 

“ _No_ ,” she says, in what would be a shout if her voice wasn’t so choked. “No, no, that’s not… That’s not what I want, Peter!”

“I’m sorry,” he says quickly. He’s not sure what else to say, close to tears again himself. “I’m sorry--”

“Don’t!” she snaps, her tears flowing in earnest now. He wants nothing more than to take her in his arms but feels sure that wouldn’t be welcome right now, especially when she storms past him to grab the blanket she’d just tossed onto the bed. 

He’d never seen someone _aggressively_ make a bed until Gamora. He watches her for a long moment, feeling completely paralyzed, unable to decide on anything at all. She’s still crying, and still steadfastly ignoring it, folding and unfolding and refolding the blanket as though getting its edges perfectly aligned is somehow the single most important task she’s ever had in front of her. It reminds him suddenly of the way she likes having her hair braided over and over again, how that calms her, and that realization just about breaks him.

“Gamora,” he breathes finally, just barely managing to get words out at all.

She shakes her head, refusing to turn and look at him. Instead she picks the blanket up, shakes it out, starts again, hands shaking visibly.

“Gamora,” he repeats, taking a careful step closer, fearing all the time that she might be about to bolt, or worse, tell him to leave.

She still doesn’t answer, folds the blanket over once, finds it wrinkled and makes a noise of frustration in the back of her throat. In a rush she picks it up and tears it savagely down the middle, the sound of it ripping punctuated by a strangled sob.

“ _Gamora,_ ” he says desperately, finally catching her by the shoulders, pulling her in until her back is flush against his chest. “Please tell me how to fix this. Tell me what you need.”

She lets him hold her but doesn’t untense at all, clutching the torn blanket like a lifeline. “I don’t know,” she says, voice choked on tears she’s trying desperately to hold back, despite the fact that her cheeks are already soaked with them. “I don’t _know_.”

 _Please let me help you_ , he wants to say again, wants to beg her to really let herself cry, to stop trying to hide this from him, but saying any of that is only going to make things worse. Again. 

He has to do something, though. Maybe he can’t get her to open up completely right now, but there’s still got to be something he can do to help help her.

“Okay,” he says slowly, as calmly as he can. Gamora is normally the most decisive person he knows, eve --perhaps especially--under pressure. But when she’s feeling upset or lost, choices suddenly paralyze her, even the tiniest, most insignificant ones, as if the consequences of anything she does could have dire consequences. 

“Okay,” he repeats. “There’s too many people in this city. The Avengers are too well-known. Why don’t we get out of here?” 

She swallows so hard that he feels it from behind her. “And go where?”

“Anywhere you want,” he says automatically, then mentally kicks himself because of course that’s another choice.

“Not the ship,” she says quickly. “Not the Compound.”

“Okay,” says Peter, for what feels like the dozenth time. “Okay, um…” He trails off, mind too full of self-flagellation to come up with a real answer. The only things coming to mind are _you’re failing again_ and _don’t be a child, don’t be a child, don’t be a child,_ , a litany of shame. 

“Peter?” she prompts, pulling away to turn and look at him. There’s concern in her face now, the tears tamped down again.

He shakes himself. “I don’t know. I don’t know, let’s just--head west. Get away from all the people. Stop when we see something we wanna see.”

“All right,” she says immediately, surprising him with how quickly she’s agreed, how easily she’s accepted that half-decision. 

She doesn’t say anything else, just starts on the brief task of gathering up their things.

Running a hand through his hair, Peter swallows, tells himself that he can do this. He can support her, can still make this okay somehow. 

Maybe if he just keeps moving.

Maybe if they both do.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks, as always, for your comments and messages on tumblr! Feedback means the world to us and keeps our creativity going. :)


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ...... hoo boy. Brace yourselves.

They settle on a place called Mill Hall. There’s no particular reason for this choice, aside from the fact that after driving until past midnight, Peter finally feels like they’ve put enough distance between themselves and the city -- and he’s guessing Gamora feels that way too, though he can’t say for sure because they hardly say a word to each other the entire drive. 

There’s also the fact that Knight Rider snidely informs them Mill Hall is so small it can’t even be called a town. And when they pull off the interstate, the roads they travel on are narrow and nearly deserted, giving Peter vague pangs of nostalgia. 

It’s pretty much the opposite of New York City, which, right now, makes it ideal. 

They have to go a few miles outside the “borough” to find a motel. Knight Rider asks them several times, in an increasingly skeptical tone, if they’re sure they wouldn’t rather keep going until they find something nicer, but Peter’s pretty sure _nicer_ was the wrong way to go with the hotel in New York. 

It’s not like the motel is _bad_ , despite Knight Rider being a snob about it. It’s old and kind of run-down looking, but it’s clean and the receptionist barely even looks at Gamora when she hands them the card keys, so as far as Peter’s concerned, it’s perfect. 

That sentiment lasts about thirty seconds. 

It probably ought to be a clue when he notices how humid the hallway is as they make their way to their room, which is all the way on the opposite end of the building from the front desk. The carpet looks slightly damp under his feet, and the whole place smells vaguely musty. Still, that’s the least of his concerns right now.

Gamora’s been practically silent since leaving the city, hunkered down in the passenger seat with her arms wrapped around herself like she might be afraid of flying apart. Not that he can blame her, after what’s just happened. _Everything_ that’s happened. Everything he’s _let_ happen.

For his part, Peter’s given up on talking for both of them, accepting the quiet as an opportunity to retreat into himself. The fight plays over and over again in his mind, every word, every nuance, everything that he’s done wrong. For years now he’s prided himself on knowing Gamora better than anyone, knowing what she likes, being able to make her feel safe, and happy, and loved. Now he finds himself questioning all of that, doubting his ability to still do it, doubting whether he _ever_ really succeeded as much as he’s thought. 

He’s halfway through replaying the incident in the park for the hundredth time when they finally reach their room. He spares half a thought to pull out the card key, swipes it, turns the handle--and promptly faceplants into the door, which hasn’t budged at all.

“What happened?” 

“Must’ve done it wrong,” he mumbles. What else is new? He tries again. And again. And _again_.

Finally, on the fifth try, the light flashes green and he successfully pushes open the door. 

“I’m sure that’s normal,” he says with much more confidence than he feels. It _could be_ , he tries to tell himself. Earth tech is pretty old. Maybe this is just how it works when it’s not designed by someone like Stark. 

Any shred of belief he may have had in his own words is destroyed when they step into the room and it’s just as stuffy as the hallway, maybe more. There’s an air conditioning unit in the window by the bed, rattling away noisily. But when he goes over to check it, he finds that it’s barely blowing out any air, and the air that it is blowing is barely colder than the room is. 

He turns the temperature down a couple degrees, though it’s already set pretty low, curling his hand into a fist when he notices that his fingers are trembling. Maybe they should’ve listened to Knight Rider after all. 

“They must’ve forgotten to turn it down,” he says with a forced smile. 

Gamora doesn’t seem to be listening. She’s digging through the bag he’d tossed on the bed, pulling out some clothes. “I’m going to change.” She walks into the bathroom and closes the door behind her. 

Peter opens his mouth to protest, feeling a cold stab of panic at having her out of his sight. That particular bit had started to improve; he’s gone, like, at least a couple hours without fearing her disappearing or suddenly dying. Being away from the Stones was helping, but now all he can think about is how quickly everything went bad at the park, how all it had taken was a matter of seconds for her to need his protection, and for him to utterly fail. Which, now that he thinks about it, is exactly what happened on Knowhere.

The air around him feels suddenly warmer and even more humid, practically clinging to him, making it feel harder to breathe. He’s struggling to remind himself that people generally want to be alone in the bathroom, that nothing is wrong here, that she’s not hiding from him--when Gamora pulls the door open herself, emerging in leggings and a tanktop.

“Hey,” she says, brow slightly more furrowed than when she went in. “Is there some sort of a trick to Terran plumbing?”

“What?” Peter blinks, thrown by the mundaneness of the question. It feels almost like he’s stepped into a different life for a second, one where they’re here in better circumstances. There was a time when he fantasized about this, about having the opportunity to do something as utterly domestic as stay in an Earth hotel with her. 

“The sink won’t stop running,” says Gamora. “Is there a trick?”

“Um, there could be. Lemme see.” 

Maybe _this_ is a problem he can fix. He’s got a lot of experience fixing things. Sure, those things are usually blasters or spaceships, but a simple Terran sink should be nothing compared to those. 

It’s not running at full blast, at least, just a light trickle, but he’s pretty sure it’s not supposed to be doing that. He checks that the knobs are turned all the way, turns them on and then off again, tightens the spout on the faucet. The plumbing underneath is a whole bunch of pipes he doesn’t want to mess with; he’s not in the mood to break the entire thing. 

“Well, it’s--better,” he says after trying a little longer. It’s improved from a trickle to a steady drip, which _is_ better. It isn’t exactly fixed, either, though. He takes a long breath, trying to quiet the voice in his head that keeps chanting _you failed, you failed_. “It’s definitely broken.”

“Okay,” she says simply. When he gets the courage to glance up, she’s staring at him, giving him a searching look. 

He skirts past her before she gets a chance to find anything.

“We should, uh, figure out what we’re gonna do tomorrow,” he says, pressing on his injured palm again, trying to distract himself from his mounting anxiety. 

Gamora looks at him blankly, arms around herself again. They’re standing in front of the bed, divided by the whole length of it. “What is there to do?”

“I don’t actually know.” It’s ludicrous, of course, to expect that he would know. He hasn’t been to Earth at all in thirty years, and never at all to this particular, very tiny part of it. Still, it feels like a question he ought to be able to answer.

“Then...did you have something particular in mind?” asks Gamora, sounding tense though not quite irritated. It’s clear that she doesn’t want to be having this conversation, or any conversation, but she’s at least humoring him for the moment.

All he really wants to do is stay inside, lie in bed with her for maybe the rest of eternity. He wants to erase the memories of the past week from existence. Swallowing, he feels the familiar tug of something akin to homesickness that often comes to him in times of stress. In reality it’s nothing more than a wish to be somewhere that’s comfortable and safe, but in his mind it’s always, always associated with his mother.

“No,” says Peter, clearing his throat and pressing a finger into his palm again to ward off those memories. “But let me look it up.” Quickly crossing the room, he reaches into their bag and pulls out a holo, powering it on.

The display looks normal enough, the thing reacting to his fingerprint and retinal scan. But when he puts the words in to search, he gets a bright red error message filling most of the screen. Frowning, he types it again, to the same effect.

“Peter,” says Gamora, and he looks up quickly, surprised to find her watching him with concern.

“What?”

She shakes her head like it ought to be obvious. “No holo network on Earth. No reception.”

“It worked to call Nebula!” he protests, as if that’s going to make any difference to the stupid error message. 

“The ship has a much stronger comm array,” she points out, wincing at the reminder of that conversation. Peter feels sick with guilt; _way to go, asshole._

“Maybe the TV will have something,” he says, a bit desperately. He clicks it on, hoping maybe one of the channels will be a tourist one, or at least local news that will tell them what’s around here. 

Instead, all it has is static. On every channel. 

He grunts and aggressively shuts it off, then takes a deep breath before turning to face Gamora again. He can’t lose his calm here 

“TV’s broken,” he says matter-of-factly. 

She nods once. She probably figured that out for herself. 

He presses on his palm, trying to concentrate. He’s becoming almost numb to the pain at this point. 

“Stark said the phones work for this kind of thing,” he says, thinking that this will at least be the solution...before he remembers that they left those in the car. 

His heart pounds against his throat. He’s got three options here, none of which he likes: He can ask Gamora to go down to the car with him, but the last thing he wants to do is make her walk all the way across the motel again when she needs to be recovering. He can go down to the car himself, which would require leaving her alone, a prospect that makes him nauseous. Or he can not go to the car at all, which would mean not getting the phones, which would mean failing her in this as well as in every other way since the moment Thanos took her. 

“Peter,” says Gamora, her voice filled with the same concern as before. 

He must not be hiding his distress as well as he’d hoped, then, which makes him curse himself again. “It’s fine, it’s fine. Just realized we left the phones in the car.”

She shakes her head. “Why don’t you just come to bed? It’s getting late.” As if to demonstrate, she crosses over to it, tossing the decorative pillows onto the chair beside it and then pulling down the comforter.

The way things have been going, Peter half expects the entire thing to collapse when she sits on the edge of it, or snap closed like a trap in a cartoon, or otherwise somehow swallow her up. Nothing happens, though, and the next thing he knows she’s looking up at him expectantly and he’s realizing that he’s staring instead of providing any sort of reasonable response.

Peter shakes his head, partly to dismiss her question and partly to try and clear it. “Not tired. And we should come up with a plan, have something to look forward to, right?”

“I don’t care what we do tomorrow,” says Gamora.

There’s something weary, almost despondent in her tone that makes him even more desperate to come up with a good answer. Sure, he’s tired, and he definitely doesn’t want to go down to the car to retrieve the phones, but...well, this isn’t about him. That’s his new motto, a mantra he’s determined to never lose sight of again. So there’s really no other answer but to suck it up and go.

He swallows, aims again for nonchalance. “I’m just gonna go get the phones, okay? Are you...okay if I leave you alone for a couple minutes?”

She rolls her eyes. “I’m not a child, Peter. If you want to go to the car, then go.”

“Right. Okay.” He nods way more times than necessary, backing towards the door. “You rest, I’ll be right back, okay?” 

“Okay.” She doesn’t roll her eyes again but he can hear the temptation in her voice. 

“Just--just a couple minutes,” he says, well aware that, despite his new mantra, the reassurance is much more for himself than for her. 

“I know, Peter.” 

He closes the door slowly, and as soon as he can’t see her anymore he literally _runs_ down the hall, taking a side door down some stairs that he’d noticed earlier so he doesn’t have to go all the way back to the front desk. 

It’s a nice night out; much nicer than it is in their room, actually. He’s trying to make Gamora comfortable and safe, and the place he chose isn’t even more comfortable than _outside_. Frustrated tears spring to his eyes and he angrily wipes them away, marching toward the car. This isn’t about him, goddammit, and him crying does Gamora no good.

The parking lot is deserted except for Knight Rider and a couple other cars. Knight Rider had protested at being parked in such an “undignified” location and Peter began to see why talking vehicle technology went out of style in the rest of the galaxy. 

He doesn’t need to turn him on now, though. He’s got the key in his pocket, so all he has to do is touch the door handle and it unlocks. 

The phones are in the console, and he yanks it open, pulling them out and slamming the door shut again in a way he knows Knight Rider would take offense to if he were on. 

Another quick run across the parking lot and he’s swiping his card key to get back in the building, just thirty seconds away from getting back to Gamora, to making sure she’s okay, to figuring out what they can do tomorrow. 

And then he smacks into the door. 

For a moment all he can do is stand stunned, forehead aching, vision blurry with equal parts shock and impact. Blinking rapidly, he reaches down and jostles the door handle, thinking he just hasn’t turned it far enough in his hurry. It refuses to budge, though, locked. 

Taking the deepest breath he can manage--which isn’t very--Peter swipes his key again, hoping he’s just gotten the timing wrong, waited too long. Still nothing. 

Okay, he tells himself, this happened at the door of their room too, and it worked eventually. All he needs to do is stay calm and try again. His hand is shaking so badly that he misses twice before managing to swipe it a third time, which does absolutely nothing to unlock the door. Still, he keeps trying, a fourth time, then a fifth, over and over again until he loses track. His chest is growing tighter again, along with his throat, heartbeat thundering in his ears. He can’t look anywhere but the door, can’t focus on anything but Gamora, until-- 

“Fucking moron,” he mutters at himself as it suddenly occurs to him that this isn’t the only door to the building. They walked right in through the lobby a little while ago, no card keys needed at all, of course.

He starts to take off at a run again, but his lungs feel like they’re about to explode, like he can’t get enough air into them to even stay conscious standing still, let alone in motion. Instead he activates his rocket boots, trying desperately to tamp down his nausea as they carry him across the parking lot. 

It seems to take an eternity to cross the distance, as if time’s slowed. The way his heart is pounding, the way all of his senses are reeling with terror takes him right back to Knowhere, to his hand shaking on the trigger of his blaster, Thanos gleefully voicing his worst fear. _You expect too much from him,_ echoing over and over in his mind until he _finally_ reaches the front of the motel and--

There’s a sign hung on the door, which isn’t opening like it did earlier. _For after hours service, ring bell._

Okay, this is fine, totally fine. All he’s gotta do is ring the bell and someone will come open the door and then he can get back to Gamora and everything will be fine. 

He presses the bell with his palm, hand too shaky and uncoordinated to manage it with his finger. There’s a large window by the door and he watches through it, anxiously waiting for someone to come walking over. Any second now. 

He rings again. And again. There’s a buzzing in his ears but he doesn’t think it has anything to do with the bell he’s supposedly ringing. He can’t hear anything from inside, there’s no sign of anyone coming… 

“Come _on_!” he shouts, slamming his palm against the bell, holding it continuously now. “You assholes, open up!” 

It’s pointless, and he knows it. The stupid fucking thing is probably broken like everything else in this stupid fucking place. 

Letting out a wordless shout of frustration, he shifts gears and starts pounding on the door, knocking as loud as he can. “Come on! Somebody, anybody, get _out_ here!” 

He’s dizzy, running out of air again. No matter how much he tries to gulp in, it’s like it gets caught in his throat until it feels like he’s choking on it, or like there’s something sitting on his chest keeping it from getting to his lungs. Come on, _come on_ , he doesn’t have time for this. Gamora’s in there, by herself, probably thinking that he’s abandoned her or that he can’t take care of her the way he promised, failing her, failing her, failing her. 

Or who knows if she’s even okay enough to be _thinking_ at all? The last time he’d left her alone for this long, he’d come back to find her curled up in bed, shaking and scared and _oh, god_ , he really needs to get inside but he _can’t_ , the door won’t budge and no one is coming and he’s so dizzy he can barely stand. 

“Come _on_!” he tries to yell again, but it comes out barely above a whisper. He can’t get enough air in his lungs to yell. He pounds on the door with both fists, quickly shifting from knocking into _punching_ , slamming his fists knuckle-first against the wood, crying and still gasping for air and wheezing, “ _Please_. Someone. Anyone.” 

He falls to his knees; he can’t breathe. His vision tunnels inward quickly, the world going almost entirely black as his head swims with lack of oxygen, chest aching with the way he’s gasping. He has a fleeting thought that his heart is going to explode if he keeps going this way. Maybe he’ll just die, then. Maybe he’ll be lucky and blink back out of existence. Maybe that would be better for Gamora, if he wasn’t around to keep disappointing her. Maybe then she could find someone different, someone better, someone who--

He nearly jumps out of his skin at the sudden weight of a hand on his back, spends an actual beat wondering why the world’s suddenly gone black before realizing that it’s because he’s got his eyes squeezed shut. Blinking, he looks up to find Gamora standing over him, looking maybe the most concerned he’s ever seen her.

“Peter?” She drops into a crouch in front of him, pressing a cool palm to his forehead. 

“No,” he chokes, the act of speaking painful, voice scraping up through his chest and throat like a blade. “No, you can’t be here, you’re supposed to be resting, in bed, not--not with me.”

She ignores that rushed jumble of words entirely. “What happened? Are you hurt? Were you attacked?”

He hates the alarm in her eyes, in her voice. That, at least, slices through his awareness, makes him focus on her. “What? No!”

She sighs, leaning closer, like examining him might show her what’s happened in the period of time she’s missed. “Then _what happened_?”

“Nothing,” he says quickly. The world is less spinny and he can breathe now; it’s difficult, but it’s a blessing in comparison. “Nothing happened.”

“Peter,” she says incredulously, giving him a look that tells him she’s amazed he’d even try that level of bullshit while he’s kneeling outside a motel in the middle of the night with tears streaming down his face. 

“I couldn’t get in,” he amends. He clenches his fists in an attempt to quell the shaking. “But I’m fine.”

She just stares at him for a long moment but he doesn’t elaborate, both because this isn’t supposed to be about him and, ironically, because he needs the time. Concentrating on one thing has always helped him the--mercifully few--other times he’s felt something like this before. He has no idea what _this_ is, but he knows he needs to get the fuck over it right now. 

Focus on her face, he thinks, trying to calm himself down; focus on the fact that she’s here, alive and not curled up in a shivering ball. His eyes trace the details of her face as if he hasn’t had them memorized for years. Her brow is furrowed in concern; her lack of proper rest shows in her eyes. She’s not trembling, though. 

“Come on,” she says at last, unbending her knees but not standing up all the way. “Can you walk?”

“Of course,” he says shakily. She offers both her hands to help him stand up and he’s in no position to refuse, even though she shouldn’t have to support him right now. His legs are unsteady and weak, knees howling with the pain as the adrenaline and panic begin to fade. 

Gamora doesn’t even hesitate, just wraps an arm around his waist and pulls one of his around her shoulders, so that she’s the one supporting his weight. For a moment he freezes, feeling a fresh burst of fear that he’s going to hurt her, that there’s no way she’s strong enough to handle the kind of support he needs right now.

She’s completely steady, though, shifting gracefully to help him balance. Sadly she’s got plenty of practice at this, since he’s significantly more likely to be the one who ends up unable to walk after a fight. She’s even had to carry him before, has proven that to be no problem under normal circumstances. There’s no way he’s going to let it come to that now, though.

“Come on,” she repeats, when he’s been standing for a few moments without actually collapsing. “Let’s get back inside.”

“Yeah, good luck with that,” he mutters, biting back a grunt of pain as they start walking. Crossing the parking lot is agony, his knees, knuckles, and palm throbbing in time with his heartbeat. He’s still feeling lightheaded and dizzy, too, though breathing’s become easier. Now the biggest challenge is not throwing up.

When they finally reach the back door, Gamora pulls out her own key, and Peter steels himself for the worst. If they both get locked out, well...maybe they could break a window? Or maybe they should just camp out in Knight Rider until someone finally comes back to the desk. But then she swipes her key and the light turns instantly green, the door opening like it’s been waiting for this moment.

“Of course,” Peter sighs. Of course it’s worked for her after he’s made an absolute fool of himself out here. That’s just absolutely typical.

“I can do the stairs myself,” he says, as they approach the foot of them. She doesn’t respond or otherwise acknowledge that he’s said anything, aside from tightening her grip around his waist.

He decides not to fight her help on this either and they take the stairs slowly, one at a time. It’s okay, he tells himself, fighting past the nausea. He just needs help getting to their room, but once they get back there he’s gonna be totally fine and he can get back to taking care of _her_ , like it’s supposed to be. 

The stairs are a slow struggle, but he’s grateful for the physical pain. It’s something to focus on. 

Her key works the first time she tries to open the door to their room, too. Another sign that she doesn’t need him, that she’s better off without him. 

“I’m okay now,” he says weakly once they’re inside, extracting his arm from around her shoulders. “Sorry about--”

“Sit on the bed,” she says, again acting like she hasn’t even heard him. She’s digging through their bag and pulling out a first aid kit, which he doesn’t remember packing. 

He doesn’t move, stunned into stillness. “I--what?”

She tosses the kit on the bed and comes back over to him, grabbing his arm. For a second, he thinks she’s going to forcibly tug him over to the bed, but instead she turns his hand over, exposing his injured palm. There’s blood seeping through the bandage, though it’s doing its job and staying sealed tight to his skin. 

Gamora traces the edge of the bandage tenderly. “We’re going to change this.” She turns his arm again and examines his scraped knuckles. “And put something on these.” 

His breath catches in his throat again at the way she’s touching him, at the undeniable love she’s showing toward the ugliest parts of him, toward the evidence of his shortcomings. She’s always looked at him this way, touched him this way--well, once she’d gotten over the whole trying to kill him thing--like he’s the most precious thing she’s ever seen. Which, to be fair, is _exactly_ how he feels about her. It’s just hard to accept that anyone might be able to reciprocate something so intense, much less about him, much less someone as amazing as _she_ is. A few days ago he’d thought that was gone forever, had _accepted_ it, for a terrible, little while.

“Peter,” says Gamora, bringing him back to the present. “Come on. You need to sit down.”

He nods, not trusting his voice, not trusting himself to do anything but follow her direction. 

The bed is just a few feet away, fortunately, but she catches his arm before he can sink down onto it. “Whoa, hold on.”

“What?” Peter glances at her, sees that she’s looking at his knees. His pants are ripped there, he realizes, scrapes freshly bruised and bloodied from the asphalt in the parking lot. The sight of his own shredded skin nearly makes him gag, and he looks back up quickly.

“Take your pants off,” Gamora says matter-of-factly. “So we can clean those.”

“No!” he says immediately, recoiling a bit. If he’s this repulsed by the sight of his own wounds, there’s no way she should be dealing with them right now. Especially when they’re the result of his own stupidity. “It’s fine, I’ll just--”

“Peter!” Gamora throws her hands up, stepping back into his space. “This is ridiculous. I’ve let you beat yourself up for _two days_! I’m done. You are _going_ to sit down and let me take care of you. That’s the deal.”

He stares at her, completely stunned; not so much because of the demand itself but the way she makes it, and the way she’s still looking at him. She’s firm but gentle at the same time, determined to make him see this her way. 

It’s the most she’s looked like herself since she came back. 

She shouldn’t _have_ to take care of him right now…but she wants to. He doesn’t _deserve_ it but she still loves him. 

“I--” He chokes on a mixture of shame and guilt and pure, overwhelming _relief_ , tears welling up and running over with nothing he can do to stop them. He tries anyway, biting his lip and wiping at his eyes. 

“Peter,” she whispers, reaching up to touch his cheek. Her voice and her touch are so soft, the way she’s looking at him is _so soft_ and finally, finally, he can’t do it anymore. 

A sob rips its way out of his throat as his head falls onto her shoulder as if pulled. He wraps trembling arms around her waist, as her own steady ones come around him and pull him even closer. He tries to hold back, to keep himself as calm as possible, but already his breaths are coming in big, shaky gasps between violent sobs, his tears have soaked through the strap of her tanktop, his legs, already weak, fail him and buckle under the enormous weight of everything that he’s been bottling up. 

Her support slows his descent, holding him as they both sink to the floor. He’s dimly aware of her gentle, soft voice saying, “It’s okay, sweetheart. It’s okay. I’ve got you.” 

They’re close enough to the bed that she rests her back against it, shifting his weight off his injured knees so that he’s half-sprawled across her lap, face still buried in her shoulder. Her body is strong and warm against him, and absolutely, completely steady. She’s still talking, he knows on some level, murmuring a continuous stream of reassurance. He can barely hear it over the sound of his own crying, though, which has started to sound jarring and alien in his own ears. He’s not in control, not even a little bit, his chest aching and his head swimming, his entire body shaking convulsively.

The sounds tearing from his throat aren’t even really sobs anymore, growing longer and louder until they coalesce into a continuous wail of agony. There’s a part of him that’s been numb since Knowhere, but especially since Titan--a part of him that couldn’t handle the reality of her death, that couldn’t even consider one more loss, especially of this magnitude. Now, suddenly, it’s all he can think of, and he’s drowning in grief, utterly lost. Now, suddenly, he’s the one falling from an unfathomable cliff, caught in the wind like the proverbial leaf. He’s the one lying discarded in the snow, shaking violently against her, blood chilled by grief.

It’s almost like an out-of-body experience. For a while, he’s only dimly aware of physical sensations. How much his throat hurts from practically screaming, how wet his face is, the pain almost everywhere in his body; it’s all muted because all he can feel is terrible, all-consuming grief that he’d never truly let himself feel until now, grief for the fact that she’d suffered so much because _he_ failed her, let her down in the worst way possible. 

It’s grief, too, for the days he’d spent thinking he’d have to be without her. Those were the worst days of his life, the worst fears that had ever latched onto his mind. 

He has no sense of time, no idea how long he goes on like that. Eventually, though, his throat runs out of steam and his wails fade back into wracking sobs. There’s a clogged, ringing sort of feeling in his ears but he can hear Gamora’s voice again. 

“It’s okay,” she’s saying softly. “I’m here. I love you. _I love you_.” 

He pauses, a brief, barely measurable break in crying while he processes what she’s just said, and then he’s somehow sobbing even harder, burying his face further into her neck and absolutely clinging to her. His hands clutch at her back, trying to hold her closer even though it’s not possible, and he’s _smiling_. 

“Hey,” says Gamora, breaking the constant stream of soothing to speak more directly. She sounds concerned at the change in him, though not irritated or disgusted by the utter mess he is right now. “Peter. Sweetheart. _Sweetheart_ , what is it?”

He manages to register the question somehow, but he’s still entirely powerless to control himself, can’t get his breathing under control. He shakes his head, trying to squeeze his eyes shut hard enough to contain the tears. It doesn’t work, of course.

“Okay,” she says after a moment, apparently realizing that the battle he’s fighting is hopeless. “Try to breathe with me, then.”

She takes his hand and brings it up to her chest, letting him feel as it rises and falls. He makes a small sound of recognition; he did this for _her_ once before after a particularly brutal brush with her past. He does his best to focus, to feel the intentionally deep, slow breaths she’s taking and match his own to them. It’s hard at first, his body trying to rebel as the adrenaline continues running wild through his veins. But gradually his sobbing gasps slow, become deeper and more regular, until he’s taking shaky but deep breaths with her, his head beginning to ache dully.

“I’m sorry,” he manages finally. “I’m sorry, fuck.” It takes every bit of willpower he’s got left to make himself pull away enough to see her face, but when he does it’s filled with so much love and compassion that he nearly dissolves into tears for a third time.

“Don’t be sorry,” she says, gentle but firm. She touches his cheek tenderly. “I just wish you’d let this out sooner. You know you don’t have to hide anything from me, right?” 

A few more tears fall; she catches a few with her thumb. She’s being so earnest and gentle and loving. He realized it before but it hits him harder now: this really is the most she’s been like herself in the entire two days she’s been back. 

He feels a fresh stab of guilt at that. Apparently, despite the fact that he’d been trying to protect her by pushing his grief down, he’d in fact only been hurting her more. 

No more, then. He can’t take back the past but he can try not to make it worse now. 

“Okay,” he says. His voice is hoarse, sore from sobbing and still clogged with tears. He smiles weakly. “Okay.”

She returns his smile and kisses his tear-stained cheek. “Why don’t we get you cleaned up now?”

He nods, a blush rising up his neck. “I am a mess.”

“A little,” she says fondly. 

“But I’m your mess?” he says hopefully. It’s a sentiment she’s voiced many times over the years, always with a mix of exasperation and affection. 

This time is no different. “Exactly.” 

He sniffles and wipes his unbandaged hand across his face, wincing and flushing again as it dawns on him how gross he must look. 

“Sorry,” he says again, though he knows she’ll remind him that it’s unnecessary. “I _hate_ crying.” He pushes himself up with a grunt of pain, his entire body protesting the movement. Somehow he feels more beaten-down now than he did after the actual battle -- after _either_ of the battles, really. Just proves how much emotions suck.

“I know,” Gamora says gently, because of course she’s heard him express that sentiment plenty of times too. He knows she shares it, it’s just that she doesn’t generally have anywhere near as many opportunities as he does to express it. 

She moves out from under him gracefully, gets her arm around his shoulders again and somehow manages to help him up before he’s even realized what she’s doing or had a chance to protest. She’s undeniably healthier today, at least physically, and he has a weird moment where his head is swimming a bit and everything from the past week feels like it might have just been the worst nightmare ever. Then he accidentally curls his injured palm and the pain jars him back.

Gamora turns him around so that the backs of his knees hit the edge of the mattress, but keeps one hand at the small of his back so he stays upright. Her other hand moves to undo his belt buckle and for a moment he just stares at it in confusion before remembering that he has to take his pants off so they can do something about his bleeding knees.

“Hey,” he manages, in a weak approximation of his usual humor. “Not even gonna take me to dinner first?”

She smiles indulgently. “Rain check,” she says, a phrase he knows she picked up from him. 

“Any time.” He’s feeling better, but the thought of food still makes him nauseous, and he gets dizzy again if he moves his head too fast. 

She lets go of his back to pull his pants down. She does it as carefully as she can, but the fabric still pulls on his scrapes and he can’t help but hiss in response.

“Sorry,” she says, crouching down to remove his shoes. 

“Don’t be,” he tells her earnestly. He knows she feels awful any time she causes him pain, even though it’s not her fault. He’s about to tell her she doesn’t have to do this, either, that he can take off his own shoes, but he clenches his uninjured hand and reminds himself that she _wants_ to, and she’s the one who gets to decide what’s best for her. 

“You can sit now,” she says, staying crouched. 

He lets out a long sigh of relief as he sinks down. He hadn’t realized quite how much he was struggling to stand until he’s able to take the weight off.

Gamora’s got the first aid kit open at his feet, wincing as she examines his knees. The fear that he’s disgusting her returns for a second, but then she looks up at him and there’s nothing but sympathy in her gaze. “Peter. How many times did you reopen these wounds?”

He shrugs. “A couple?”

She shakes her head and removes a clear bottle from the kit. He whines, recognizing it instantly. 

“Don’t you have any of those all-in-one bandages?” he pleads. “The kind that clean too? I hate that liquid stuff.”

“No, sorry,” she says, pouring some onto a cotton ball. “Rocket was in charge of replenishing the first aid stuff last time. Take it up with him.”

Peter grits his teeth, then nods for her to begin cleaning the wounds, fighting against the urge to start crying again as it stings. The upside is that he knows the antiseptic also contains a numbing agent, so his knees are going to feel _awesome_ pretty soon, but that doesn’t really make the pain suck any less right now. 

“This is really deep,” says Gamora, wincing as she cleans the worst of the wounds on his left knee. 

“Yeah, well,” he sighs. “What can I say? I’m an idiot.”

“Self-flagellation does not earn you any points,” she says dryly, another of her frequently-used lines when she’s not actually angry but that particular brand of affectionately exasperated she seems to reserve just for him.

His breath catches again, this time having nothing to do with the pain and everything to do with the sudden realization of how much he’s _missed_ her. It’s an epiphany distinct from grief, separate from the agony he’d felt--okay, still feels, if he lets his mind go down that particular black hole. She’s been back now for almost as long as she was gone, technically, but this part of her was still missing, somehow. Somehow, without his even realizing, an invisible gulf has grown between them, a thing built out of grief and fear and shame. 

“Peter?” she asks, as she finally moves to bandage his knees, and he realizes he’s no longer feeling that particular pain.

He swallows hard, more determined than ever not to break down again. “I’m fine, I’m fine. Just--hate that stuff. You know.”

“...Mhmm.” She gives him a look, clearly not believing him, but doesn’t say anything else. 

She bandages his knees with care, though the bandages themselves do most of the work, sealing over his wounds and molding around the curves of bone and muscle. 

When she’s finished, she remains crouched, hand hovering over one of his knees. Then she glances up at him, something hesitant in her gaze, and says, “Should I kiss it to make it better?”

He nearly bursts out crying right then. 

He’s given Gamora a lot of experience caring for his injuries throughout the years. And some major ones. When they’re small--scrapes, bruises, sprains, pulled muscles--he likes to milk them for all they’re worth. He pouts and whines and holds the injured area dramatically, as if it’s a terrible, debilitating wound. Sometimes he requests that she carry him to bed because this cut on his arm is clearly Too Much to bear; sometimes she does, shaking her head with that fond exasperation all the while.

His favorite thing, though, is insisting that the only real cures are cuddling and, of course, for her to kiss it and make it all better. 

“Yeah,” he says, voice hoarse and choked with fresh tears he’s barely holding back. “Yes, please.”

She presses a gentle, fleeting kiss to the bandage over each knee before standing slowly. She’s standing in front of him, still looking somewhat unsure. Of course, she’s probably feeling the gulf too.

It feels smaller to him, now. Like they’ve crossed part of it. 

As the moment passes, she moves to close the first-aid kit, then freezes again, cursing softly. “Your hands.”

“They’re fine!” Peter says quickly, instinctively sticking the injured one behind his back, as if that might somehow make her forget about it again. The wounds on his knees were objectively more severe, but there’s something about the burn from the Stone that feels...worse. It’s not just that it hurts more--though it does. It’s the potential for it to hurt her too, since she apparently somehow knows what it means, knows that it was part of the cost to get her back. The last thing he wants is for her to feel guilty about that when it feels like such a miniscule price to pay.

She throws her own hands up, fond exasperation flaring back into actual irritation. “Peter! Cut the crap, seriously.” 

He flinches at the change in her tone, has to actively fight against the instinct to start beating himself up again. He’s at least aware enough now to realize that only leads in frustrating circles for both of them. Instead he clenches his jaw and holds both hands out to her, avoiding her gaze.

She starts with his left, unbandaged hand, quickly cleaning his skinned knuckles before covering them in cream that will probably have his skin regenerated by morning. His right hand is more complicated, though. He hasn’t touched the bandage after putting it on that first night, hasn’t checked the wound at all, and he’s been abusing it this whole time. He hisses through his teeth again as she unwraps the injury, dried blood making the bandage stick painfully. When it’s finally exposed, he sees that the whole thing is a bloody mess, far worse than his knees, and the angry red streaks around it suggest an infection brewing as well.

“Oh, _Peter_ ,” Gamora breathes, sinking back to her knees at the sight of it, and pressing a soft kiss to each of his fingertips before he can stop her.

There’s nothing he can do to hold in the tears at this point. They fall silently down his cheeks and he doesn’t even try to stop them. 

He doesn’t know what to say, doesn’t feel like he deserves the reverence she’s showing. 

And he _knows_ she doesn’t deserve the guilt he can hear in her voice when she says, “I’m so sorry.” 

“You have nothing to be sorry for,” he says, quiet but vehement. “This is such a small price to pay.”

She looks for a moment like she might want to say more, but instead she turns his hand over and kisses it tenderly, then flips it back face up. She’s apparently decided to tend to it from down there because she brings the kit down to the floor again and pulls out the dreaded antiseptic. 

He grits his teeth, tears of physical pain joining the others because this is _so much worse_ than his knees. His hand actually starts trembling. 

“I’m sorry,” Gamora repeats, moving quickly to finish up, but somehow showing even more care and caution than she did with his knees. Every tiny touch to the wound stings, even just the cloth she uses to clean the excess blood. 

“It’s okay,” he breathes, clutching the edge of the mattress with the other hand. “Really.” 

She shakes her head, spraying his palm with an antibacterial spray that stings even more than the antiseptic.

Even once it’s cleaned up, this wound still looks way worse than the ones on his knees. Perhaps it doesn’t appreciate being covered in a bloody bandage for two days and being hit and pushed on repeatedly. 

Finally, she lays a fresh bandage over it, unnecessarily smoothing out the perfectly-conformed edges for a moment before standing back up. 

She cups his face, wiping his tears, an action that just makes more of them fall. “Can I get you anything?”

“No,” he says quickly, still trying to burden her as little as possible. And also because he can’t think of a single thing he needs besides her. 

She makes a thoughtful humming noise, then goes over to their bag to pull a couple water bottles out. She opens one and hands it to him. “Drink.”

He manages a small smile. “Yes, ma’am.”

“Good,” she says simply, setting her bottle on the nightstand. “Now, scoot up.” 

He obliges, thankful for the numbness in his knees that allows him to finally bend them without pain. Gamora climbs into bed beside him, and he falls into her arms as easily as ever. 

They take another step across the gulf.


	7. Chapter 7

For a little while, Peter loses track of everything.

He’s been keeping his mind carefully focused for the past week--on the mission, on the battle, on getting whatever Gamora needs. 

It’s a technique he learned a long time ago, when he’d first been with the Ravagers, still reeling from the loss of his mother, from the loss of everything he’d ever known. It’s gotten him through more tough times than he cares to remember, and it works really well, except that it’s _exhausting._

Back in the day, it had usually ended with him in a bar, drinking away whatever he’d been trying to avoid in the first place, probably culminating in mindless sex. _Probably_ culminating in feeling even worse than he would have if he’d just faced things to begin with, but. Well, he’s never claimed to be good at that coping thing anyway.

Right now the only thing he’s aware of is Gamora, with her hand in his hair, stroking gently. The air conditioner is still rattling away ineffectually in the window, but there’s something almost soothing about the noise now. He can feel her pulse beating in her neck where his temple rests against it, strong and slow and steady. Shifting against her ever so slightly, he turns his head, pressing a lingering kiss to her throat, and smiles at the content little sound she makes.

They’ve spent a lot of nights like this. Even when one or both of them can’t sleep, it’s nice to lie in bed together, talking or just holding each other. He’s still much too wired to sleep, but he could easily stay like this until sunrise, or longer. He has before. 

Then one of the two lights above the bed starts flickering. 

Peter sighs. Even behind closed eyelids, he can see it, like some dramatic omen out of a cheap horror movie.

“That is unpleasant,” Gamora mutters. 

“Let’s just turn it off.” He reluctantly pulls away from her to sit up and flick the switch on the headboard, extinguishing the light. The light on the other side of the bed remains, at least for the moment.

The room’s at half its previous brightness now. Given, it’s nearly three in the morning and they don’t really need the room to be lit, but it would be nice to have the option... Nice for one thing in this stupid hotel to work properly. 

“I’m sorry,” he sighs, not falling back into her arms no matter how desperately he wants to. He rubs a hand over his face. “I’m sorry this place sucks.”

“It doesn’t suck.” She sounds honest. 

He snorts. “It’s not exactly that New York hotel.” 

“I prefer this,” she says. He must look disbelieving, because she continues in a soft voice, “It reminds me of home.”

Peter blinks, momentarily confused. “Your homeworld had shitty hotels?”

She shakes her head like that’s a particularly silly question. “No. The Quadrant.”

That makes more sense at least in terms of what she considers home, but he can’t help the swell of defensiveness he feels at the implication that the Quadrant might be as shitty as this place. Especially if she’s felt that way for years now and hasn’t told him. “Hey now. At least shit on the Quadrant _works._ I mean. Most of the time.”

She sighs. “It wasn’t an insult, Peter. I like this room. It has character.”

“Nothing _works_ ,” he insists, though she’s being so earnest that he can’t really bring himself to believe that she’s lying. Not like she typically lies to him anyway, though she has been known to try to spare his feelings.

“It works for me,” she says again. She reaches up to rest a hand against his cheek, gently urging his gaze downward until he meets hers, sees the truth in it, and also the love. “Come back here.”

She settles back against the pillows again, an arm outstretched in invitation. He only hesitates for half a second longer before telling himself it’s what she wants, that their relationship is practically built on taking care of one another and this isn’t any different.

“I’m sorry,” he sighs against her shoulder anyway, then continues in a rush when he senses that she’s about to dismiss the apology again. “Not for the hotel. For the park, and--all of that. I really fucked that up.”

“I don’t blame you, Peter.” Her hand is back in his hair again, and he relaxes a bit despite himself. “I fucked up more.”

“What?” He glances up at her, surprised. “What are you talking about?”

“I said...awful things.” She refuses to meet his eyes. “You weren’t being a child.”

He bites his lip, trying to stave off the tears welling up in his eyes again. He still kind of feels like he _was_ acting like a child, trying to deflect and distract and pretend when what she really needed was for him to just support her. 

“I’m sorry,” she whispers when he hasn’t responded for a second. 

He shakes his head, sniffling. “I deserved it.”

“No,” Gamora says, with so much conviction that he almost believes her. “You didn’t. You don’t. You were trying to help.”

“It didn’t work, though.”

“That doesn’t matter,” she says fiercely. Her hand has stilled in his hair, and he can feel the tension in it. It’s not that her touch has become rough, not like she’s pulling at his hair--It’s a subtle change in the curve of her her fingers where they rest against the back of his neck, the slightest tremor running through her wrist.

“Yeah it does,” Peter insists. There was a time, he thinks, when he might have let her take all of the blame, when it would have been too tempting to take the easy way out and absolve himself. There’s no way he can do that now, though. She’s far too important. “It _does_.”

“You were trying to take care of me,” she says again, just as determined. “You have _always_ taken care of me. You take care of me like nobody else ever has.”

“I--” He pauses, momentarily derailed in his rhythm of self-flagellation. That’s true, and she’s said it with such vehemence that he recognizes it would absolutely be hurtful for him to disagree. “Okay. Yes. But that doesn’t excuse the fact that I failed, like, epically. I should have paid more attention to what you needed, especially when people were crowding you.”

“And _I_ should have been clearer about what I needed,” she counters.

He takes a breath and raises his head, pushing himself up on one elbow so that he can see her face. “Okay, yeah. That would have been helpful.”

“Can we at least agree that we both made mistakes of roughly equal magnitude?” asks Gamora, arching an eyebrow expectantly.

Peter takes a breath, blows it out, swallowing down the instinct to continue beating himself up. That’s not going to help any of this. “Okay. Okay, yeah.” On impulse, he raises his free hand, tries to approximate a smile. “Messed up five?”

Her expression turns slightly incredulous. “You want me to high five you for hurting one another?”

“Yeah,” says Peter, though the idea doesn’t seem so awesome when she puts it like that. Still, he’s committed to it now. “It’s like shaking on a truce, except we’re both agreeing to not take all the blame for ourselves.”

“That makes _no_ sense,” says Gamora, and high fives him anyway. Then her expression turns serious again. “You really thought I’d want to leave you? After everything?”

“I don’t know,” he hedges, then sighs.

He knows, looking back now, even though it was only a few hours ago, that it was irrational of him to think that. It’s not like he’s unaware that she loves him; he knows she does. They’ve been together for four years and she’s made that perfectly, wonderfully clear. 

But he also knows that he never gets to keep the people or things he loves. He always ends up losing them in one way or another. 

“Okay, yeah. I...wasn’t in a great place.” He’s still not in a _great_ place, the fears still poking at his temples and pounding against his ribcage, but he’s better at least. 

“I noticed,” she says, but there’s nothing biting in her tone. It’s just sad. Almost resigned. She’s aware of this knee-jerk fear he has that she (and the rest of the team) will leave him one day, but it’s been a long time since he’s voiced it. Before this week, actually, it had mostly faded from his mind. He’d grown content with Gamora and the others, accepted that they love him and have faith in him as their captain even if they don’t always listen to him, or if he makes a mistake. 

Nothing like a brush with death to bring repressed fears back to the forefront, he supposes. And really, this was less a _brush_ with death than a head-on collision, forcing all his worst fears and anxieties to come slamming into his brain, not giving him a moment’s peace. 

“Why didn’t you say something?” she whispers. The question seems to just come out of her, unbidden and a little desperate. “Why wouldn’t you let me help you?”

“Gamora, you just--” He cuts himself off, can’t bring himself to say the word ‘died.’ He has enough trouble thinking it. “You’ve gone through so much.” More than he’s even aware of, he’s sure. “You shouldn’t have to take care of me on top of that. And I know, I _know_ that you want to,” he adds before she can say anything. “That’s just...that’s why.”

She’s quiet for a moment, hand back to stroking his hair even though his head’s not on her shoulder anymore. “Do you remember,” she says thoughtfully, “those first few weeks after Ego? What it was like, for _both_ of us?”

“I remember I was a mess,” says Peter, automatically. This is a discussion they’ve had plenty of times, one of the examples they each tend to bring up when the other is in the grips of self-doubt. Peter _knows_ this, has even used it on her, yet he’s pretty sure his answer will always be the same. It’s one of those weird perspective things, like an optical illusion, like the way the vase disappears once you’ve seen the old woman in it. 

“Yes,” she says patiently, because she knows this routine too. “But so was I. And you took care of me, even though you had just been through hell and back.”

“Not _literally_ ,” Peter blurts, then winces at himself. That’s definitely not what he wants to be reminding her of right now. And he doesn’t even know if it’s true, though if his momentary experience with the Stone was any indication…

“You took care of me then,” Gamora says again, more firmly, apparently choosing to ignore his outburst. “Even though I didn’t think I deserved it. And you told me that it helped you heal, too. Which I believe, because I trust you.”

Peter sighs, feeling equal parts weary and contrary and filled with an impossible amount of love for her. “And your point is that now our positions are reversed, so I should let you take care of me even if I feel like I don’t deserve it.”

She nods.

“And this is also the part where I admit that you’re always right?” he asks, because if he has to let her win, the very least he can do is get a smile out of it.

Instead, though, her lips only twitch, her face filled with an incredible tenderness, along with the same sense of poignance he saw on the Benatar.

“What?” he breathes, reaching out to touch her cheek.

Gamora shakes her head, swallowing visibly. “I just--missed you.”

“ _Oh_.” He brushes his thumb over her cheekbone, reverently tracing a scar, taking in her face as if he’s got to re-memorize it for the thousandth time in the past two days. “I missed you, too. _God_ , Mora, I missed you, too.” 

He leans his forehead against hers and tilts his head to capture her lips, soft and brief, a reassurance. Her lower lip wobbles against him and she bites it when when they pull apart. 

He watches her carefully, prepared for her to finally, truly break, to let herself cry. Maybe he can let her comfort him, but she still needs comfort, too, a hell of a lot of it. 

“I’m here,” he says softly. 

She doesn’t break, though. She takes a couple of unsteady breaths through her nose, then whispers, “I know,” avoiding his eyes but voice already stronger. 

He barely represses a sigh. She’s holding something back, probably a lot of somethings. As much as he wants her to just open up so he can work on _helping her_ with those somethings, he knows Gamora is not to be rushed. 

He pries his forehead away to tilt up and kiss hers. “So, are we--okay now?” 

She raises her eyebrows and he realizes the absurdity of that question. 

“Our fight,” he amends. “Are you… Do you feel better?” 

“If you forgive me,” she says quietly, avoiding his gaze. 

He shakes his head. “I was never mad. Nothing to forgive.” 

“Peter,” she sighs. He half-expects her to restart their ‘who’s more to blame’ argument, but instead she shifts, dropping her head to rest against his neck, tension in her shoulders loosening just a little. 

“I’m here,” he repeats, wrapping his arms around her and pulling her in close, something in him relaxing too. He stays like that for a moment, just breathing her in, then shifts to roll both of them over so she’s resting against his chest. Running a hand down over her back, he toys with the hem of her shirt, feeling the heat of her skin where it rides up a bit. She’s here, he reminds himself, and strong, and warm, and _alive._

“Do you forgive me?” she repeats, and this time there’s an edge of vulnerability in her voice that absolutely breaks his heart. She needs to hear it, he realizes, even if he thinks it’s unnecessary. It’s not as if this is the first time they’ve said terrible things to one another, but it is one of the blessedly few, and he understands why it’s not easy for her to simply move on.

“Of course,” says Peter, touching her cheek again, taking the time to focus on the softness of her skin beneath his fingers, the curve of her cheekbone, the muscles of her jaw. 

She exhales, then nods, relaxing further, her hand coming up to stroke his side. “It’ll be daylight soon. How are you feeling?”

He takes stock, then winces. The panic’s receded for now, and he’s forced to admit that letting her take care of him actually _has_ helped. Still, the aftermath has left him with a pounding headache and an aching throat, plus a feeling of general weakness that probably has as much to do with skipping dinner as it does all of the adrenaline. “Kinda like I got hit by a truck. But--better.” She makes a little noise that he’s pretty sure is agreement, but he asks anyway. “You?”

“About the same.”

He presses a lingering kiss to the top of her head, considering. The thought of food, which only minutes ago made nausea bubble in his stomach, is growing more appealing by the second. He’s _really_ feeling the fact that all either of them had to eat all day was a hotdog probably twelve hours ago. 

“Do you wanna see if there’s any place to eat in this town?” he asks tentatively. “Or borough or whatever it is.” 

Gamora stiffens in his arms. He rubs slow, soothing circles along her back, knowing exactly why she’s tense before she even says it. 

“I am unsure about...leaving the hotel.”

He’s not exactly too keen on the idea himself, but they have very little choice. Still, there _is_ one. “We have ration bars in the bag.” 

She instantly shakes her head, as he’d been sure she would. Gamora will only eat ration bars if there’s absolutely no other option. “No. We can...we should go somewhere.”

“This place is much smaller than New York,” he says, to comfort both of them. “We hardly saw anyone on the drive in. And it’s not even really morning yet. I bet we’ll be some of the only ones out.”

“I hope so.”

“If people get obnoxious, we can just grab some food and run.”

“Peter.” She swats his arm half-heartedly and he smiles; that’s what he’d been going for. 

“Okay, okay,” he says in his best placating tone. “No stealing, my girlfriend doesn’t like it. Hmm...how about we _throw_ the food at them, then?”

“Peter,” she repeats, though she can’t hide the affection in her tone, can’t keep the smile off her face even though he can tell she’s still apprehensive.

“No?” He pretends to think very hard, tapping a finger against his temple like that might somehow jar new ideas loose. “How about, if people look at you weird, I’ll take the food and squish it all over my face, so then they look at me even _weirder_?”

“ _Peter,_ ” she groans, swatting at him again. She shakes her head. “I get it, you’ll protect me. Though you should probably put some pants on if we’re going out.”

“Awwww,” he whines, “do I have to?”

Gamora silences him with a kiss on the lips, then gets up to go face the world.

* * *

The only place open at this hour, it turns out, is a Denny’s a few miles away. Peter has a vague memory of the chain, though he’s not sure he ever would have been able to name it without being reminded. Still, the sight of the yellow and orange sign stirs something in the back of his mind, an undeniable sense of _done this before_ that he’s inclined to believe though he can’t come up with any specifics.

Inside it’s mercifully empty, but surprisingly large. Their server is a tired looking woman who introduces herself as Nikki, and doesn’t give Gamora a second glance before leading them over to a booth near the kitchen. Peter lets her sit down first, considers for about half a second, then slides in beside her and wraps an arm around her shoulders.

They both immediately say ‘yes’ when Nikki asks if they want coffee and she disappears to go get it. 

“Is this to better protect me?” Gamora asks wryly, though she immediately leans into him. 

“Well, yeah,” he says. “But also because this is how all the cool couples do it.”

“Oh, is it?” She pulls a menu towards her.

“Mhmm. The cool couples also share menus.” He flicks the second menu to the other side of the table and pushes the one she’s holding with a finger so she’ll tilt it towards him more. 

“Oh, we’d better make sure we’re cool,” she mutters, lips twitching. 

In truth, while Peter will use any excuse to be closer to her, he also knows she’s likely to have questions about the menu. She’ll be able to read the words, thanks to her translator, but knowing what they mean is another matter. There are some food items that they have all over the galaxy, or at least a similar enough equivalent that she’d know about what it is, like pancakes or eggs. Other things, though… 

There’s something on the menu called ‘peanut butter cream pancakes.’ He feels something twist in his chest when he reads it, the nostalgia an actual, palpable ache. 

Peanut butter was one of his favorite foods as a kid. He’d put it on _anything_ unless his mom stepped in to stop him. Even then, he’d sometimes sneak into the kitchen and eat it with his fingers straight out of the jar. He has a distinct memory of his mom catching him once, and the way she’d tried to look stern when she clearly wanted to laugh. 

“Peter?” Gamora’s soft voice shakes him out of the memory. She’s looking at him, equal parts curious and concerned. He must’ve been quiet for a while. “Are you okay?”

“Yeah,” he says a bit hoarsely. He clears his throat. “Definitely. I just… We gotta try this peanut butter pancake thing.” 

“Anything you want,” she says easily. She doesn’t push him to share, though, has always been able to sense when vulnerability isn’t what he needs in the moment. Instead she shifts under his arm, slipping her hand under his jacket to rub his back. 

Peter swallows against the paradoxical urge to burst into tears yet again, this time because of the immense wave of gratitude he feels for her and her simple acceptance of his perpetually ridiculous emotions. Clearing his throat roughly, he leans in and presses a kiss to her temple before letting her turn her own attention back to the menu. She still has to figure out what she’s going to order.

“What,” she asks thoughtfully, “is a ‘Grand Slam’?”

“Oh,” says Peter, looking over her shoulder. Judging by the menu, it seems to be this restaurant’s version of a signature combo meal, though he _knows_ it’s more than that. He wracks his brain, trying to remember, which he does...sort of. “I think it’s a thing in baseball? Which is a Terran game where you use a bat to hit a ball, and then you run around this circle of bases before the other team can get the ball. A grand slam is...um...when you hit it so hard that you get to run around all of the bases before they can do it.”

“All right,” she says slowly, accepting that part at face value. She’s not satisfied, though. “But what does that have to do with breakfast?”

“It’s--” He flounders for another moment, trying to come up with a reason other than ‘because sometimes Earth things don’t make sense.’ “It’s symbolic. Like, the pancakes are the bases and the eggs are the ball.”

Her frown only deepens, which is absolutely not a surprise. Peter knows she dislikes things that have misleading names, has seen her get grumpy about that plenty of times before. 

“I don’t think I want to eat baseball,” she says finally, giving the menu a judgmental look.

“It’s just a metaphor,” he assures her. “We can skip the eggs, though. You can get those anywhere.” 

“All right,” she says, but she’s still pursing her lips at it. 

He glances at the pictures, hoping to find something that will redeem Terran breakfast food, and gasps aloud when he sees it. 

“You know what you can’t get anywhere else?” 

“Edible sports?”

“Bacon!” He points to the picture, practically vibrating in his seat. 

Gamora only looks more confused. “Bacon? Like Kevin Bacon?”

“Yeah!” he says enthusiastically. “Well, I don’t think it’s named after him or anything. Although maybe… No, bacon has gotta be older. Maybe he’s named after the food. The point is: it’s delicious and we’re gonna get a ton. Oh!” He points to another thing on the menu. “Hash browns!” 

“A lot of planets have hash browns,” she points out, but she’s smiling in that affectionate way that always fills him with an almost buoyant energy. 

“A lot of planets _think_ they have hash browns,” he tells her. “They got nothin’ on these. You _have_ to try them.”

“I have always enjoyed your food recommendations,” she says. His chest swells with pride, even though that’s distinctly untrue. Just the other night he’d tried to get her to eat soup that gave her painful flashbacks. But he appreciates her confidence nonetheless. 

When Nikki returns, they order more food than they can possibly eat in one sitting, or at least more than they _should_. At Peter’s enthusiasm for things like potatoes and orange juice, the waitress finally looks at them properly, blinking at Gamora. 

“You folks from out of town?” she asks, though barely more interested than she was before. 

“Missouri,” Peter says quickly, feeling Gamora tense a little under his arm. 

Nikki makes a noncommittal noise that he thinks may, by a generous estimate, be expressing amusement. Then she walks away again. 

“She could not have believed _I’m_ from Missouri,” Gamora says skeptically, watching her warily as she walks to the kitchen. 

“I don’t think she cares,” he says, rubbing her arm soothingly. She relaxes slowly.

Peter notices belatedly that Nikki’s left them mugs and a pot of coffee in the middle of the table. He’s been so preoccupied with making sure that Gamora’s okay, that nothing is going to freak her out, that he’s totally neglected to notice. 

Sighing at himself, he places a mug in front of each of them, then picks up the pot and pours, inhaling the comfortingly familiar scent. Coffee is one of those rare things that’s ubiquitous throughout the galaxy, though it varies a bit. He’s wondered before whether that means that aliens brought it to Earth, way back when, or if somehow they took it _from_ Earth. Not that he’s ever met anyone with an answer.

“You want cream or sugar?” he asks Gamora, as he finishes pouring for her. He’s pretty sure he knows the answer, but he doesn’t want to make any assumptions, is more determined than ever to ask and listen to what she needs.

She shakes her head, wraps her fingers around the mug. They’re shaking a little, he realizes, but decides not to comment when she seems to be on her way to relaxing. She doesn’t take a sip yet, seems to just be enjoying the warmth.

“People in New York certainly cared,” says Gamora, the abruptness of that particular backtrack throwing him for a momentary loop.

“Um,” says Peter, “about--you not being from Missouri?”

She nods, then swallows so effortfully that he can see the muscles of her throat working. “I shouldn’t have panicked.”

“Hey,” he says quickly, “it’s totally understandable. Being in a strange place, with strangers crowding you, especially after--”

“I could have hurt someone,” she interrupts. “I _might_ have hurt someone. It’s not like I stayed to find out.”

“A couple people fell down,” he says casually. “It wasn’t a big deal.”

“I _kicked_ someone.”

“Because he touched you without permission!” Peter says, getting pissed off just thinking about it. “He deserved it.”

Gamora shakes her head again. “I still shouldn’t have done it.”

“We both did things we shouldn’t have,” he reminds her. “We were...tense.”

“I suppose.” She shrugs--tensely--still just fidgeting with her mug instead of drinking from it. 

They’re both quiet while he adds cream and sugar to his, so much that it’s basically not coffee anymore, at least according to Gamora. 

He doesn’t know how to go about making her feel better about this. He has no real proof that she didn’t hurt the man she kicked, and he can’t really promise that no one else is going to be curious about her. 

“It was a bad choice,” he says at last, staring at the surface of his coffee. “New York. I shouldn’t have taken us there.”

“Don’t start blaming yourself again,” she says quickly. 

“I’m not,” he lies. “I just… It was clearly a bad idea. You’re-- _we’re_ supposed to be healing, and I took us to about the busiest, noisiest, least relaxing place I could.”

She’s quiet for another long moment. The urge to continue his self-flagellation is strong, but he resists.

“I don’t think it was that,” she says. “At least, not that by itself.”

“What do you mean?”

Her grip around the mug tightens. “The tall buildings; the traffic; the crowds... It felt like Xandar.”

His heart stops, then picks up its rhythm in double time. “Oh, shit,” he breathes. “You’re right.” 

In all the chaos and horror and grief of the past week, he’s completely forgotten about that particular tragedy. Xandar, the planet they’d first come together to save, the planet they’d come to think of as home base over the past few years, decimated… presumably half of the population murdered, but they didn’t even have time to ask Thor to clarify what he’d meant, much less to properly mourn. 

“Why didn’t they _call_ us?” she asks in a small voice. She wipes angrily at a tear that’s managed to escape, then finally takes a big gulp of coffee, as though that’s going to shore up the floodgates. 

“I don’t know,” says Peter, his heart breaking in equal parts for her and for Xandar. “I don’t know, maybe--maybe they couldn’t? If--How would he have done it, if he didn’t have the Stones yet?” It’s probably not the right question, he realizes a moment too late. Not the kind of thing he wants her to have to be thinking about right now. But he also doesn’t want to keep making assumptions that upset her more.

She shakes her head, takes another sip of coffee and then sets the mug down, lips twisting into an expression of disgust that he knows has nothing to do with the flavor. “Good old fashioned genocide.”

“He couldn’t have taken the whole planet at once,” says Peter, half a question.

“No,” she agrees darkly. “No, it would have taken time. They would have had a chance to send us a distress call. Someone made the decision not to. _Someone_ made the decision not to tell us after the fact, too.”

“I’m sure it was just an oversight,” he insists, then thinks of another possibility. “Or! Or they wanted to spare us, because they knew we’d be needed to fight him later, to save the rest of the galaxy.”

“Or they didn’t trust us,” says Gamora, looking into her mug.

“ _Of course_ they trust us,” he says firmly. “Xandar, the Nova Corps, they love us. They’ve been calling us for jobs and stuff for years.”

“Never when Thanos was involved,” she says, voice so small he almost doesn’t hear. “They know about me, that I--”

“They know you got away from him,” he cuts her off, wrapping his other arm around her, hugging her sideways in the booth. There’s occasional, tiny tremors running through her; in the back of his mind he wonders if they’ll ever stop, or if the darkness and coldness of that horrible place, the place he saw when he held the stone, will stay with her forever, if this is some after effect of being in that other realm she can never fully shake off. 

He swallows, forces those thoughts down. One problem at a time. 

“They know you hated him,” he continues. Her other arm slides slowly around his waist, returning the hug. “They just… Maybe they tracked our location and knew we were too far to get there in time. Or they tried to call but we were too far out of range to get it--”

He cuts himself off this time, a swell of nausea returning at the thought that they might’ve been called but couldn’t answer and as a result, half a planet had been destroyed. He wonders, fleetingly, which half; he thinks about Dey and Nova Prime and everyone else they know there, whether they’re…

Peter’s stuck between wishing their holos were working so he could send out a message and at the same time being grateful that they can’t, afraid of what the news is going to be.

“We should go back,” says Gamora, almost as if reading his mind. “We should go back right now, find the others and go to Xandar, see if there’s anything we can do.” But then she pauses, swallows so hard he can feel the motion through her entire body, practically convulsive. “I mean--if they will let me.”

“Gamora,” he says desperately, heart breaking for her for what feels like the thousandth time in just a few days. “You have given _so much_ in this--in all of this. Fuck, you gave up your _life._ ”

She shakes her head, pulling back from him, though not far enough to break contact between them entirely. “No. No, I didn’t. I _didn’t_. I wanted to but I wasn’t strong enough.”

He goes rigid at that, horrified in equal parts at the pain in her voice and the words coming out of her mouth. It takes actual effort to get his voice to work, and to keep it at something like a reasonable volume, still painfully aware on some level that they’re having this discussion in public. “What the hell does that mean? You _tried_. It is not your fault that Thanos overpowered us with the goddamn Infinity Stones.” Of course, his conviction in telling her that does absolutely nothing to assuage the guilt he still feels over failing to pull the trigger immediately, when there might have been a chance.

“I gave him the location of the Soul Stone,” says Gamora, and it’s much more than tremors running through her now. “I _gave_ it to him, because I wasn’t strong enough to let him kill Nebula. Because I wasn’t strong enough to kill myself the moment I realized he was on Knowhere. I thought I could still find another way to stop him. I am a fool.”

His arms are only loosely around her now with how far she’s pulled back. He moves, finding that it’s trembling as much as hers, now, to cup her cheek, grateful that she lets him. He hadn’t known much of-- or _any_ \-- what happened after Thanos took her, and this particular detail makes his stomach churn again. 

“Please, listen to me,” he whispers, sure his voice will shatter if he tries to make it any stronger. “Stopping your sister from being killed does not make you weak, or a fool. And neither does not immediately jumping to killing yourself. There was only one way for this whole thing to work out, remember?” 

“I don’t know,” she says softly, avoiding his eyes though her face is still turned toward him. “I don’t know that that’s true. Perhaps from one given point in time, but change even a simple thing before that, and--” She breaks off, shaking her head again.

“ _You_ don’t know that either,” he points out, desperate to stop her from beating herself up any further. “You can’t know that, only Strange--” He breaks off. There’s something in the set of her jaw that gives him pause, and suddenly he’s thinking about certain other things she’s said. “Wait, _do_ you know that?”

Gamora turns her head so that her face is wrenched away from his hand, picks up her mug and stubbornly takes a sip of coffee though it’s obviously effortful. “You just said it’s not possible. I am not the Sorcerer.”

Peter sighs. There’s _something_ here, but he can _see_ the walls coming back up yet again. Another failure to get her to share it. “Well, regardless, _it worked out._ We’re here and we’re alive and Thanos isn’t. I don’t see how there’s anything for you to feel bad about in that.”

“Let’s just drop it,” she says flatly. He’s about to argue, but a second later Nikki is back with a tray full of food and he’s forced to stay silent. 

The piles of pancakes, hash browns, bacon, and fruit that just a couple minutes ago he’d been so excited about hold almost no appeal now—though not _none_. He’s an unpleasant mix of starving and nauseous, but at least there’s something he can do about the former. 

He politely declines when Nikki asks if she can get them anything else. Once she’s gone, he glances between Gamora and the food, uncertain what to do. He wants to work this out, to figure out what she’s hiding and fix it somehow; maybe to call the others, if he can even get a hold of them, and ask for an update on Xandar, something to convince Gamora they don’t need to up and leave for another mission. 

“It will be hard to eat without both of your hands,” she says pointedly, gesturing to the arm that’s still wrapped around her. 

She’s right, of course, but that doesn’t mean he’s okay with letting go. That gives him a burst of inspiration, and he decides just as quickly that if he can’t fix anything, if he can’t solve the actual problem, he can at least make her laugh. Even if it’s out of exasperation. It’s been his go-to fallback for pretty much his entire life, so why not now?

“Watch me,” says Peter, reaching out to shift things around the table and putting on his best Narrator Voice. “Peanut butter pancakes for me. Hashbrowns for you. Bacon for both of us, though not of the Kevin variety.” It _is_ a little clumsy, but he manages to get it done. The real challenge, he knows, will be actually eating the food without the combined use of a fork and knife. 

Gamora shakes her head but arches an eyebrow expectantly, a silent challenge for him to continue this demonstration of idiocy.

Picking up a piece of bacon, he holds it up to his face like a mustache, waggling his eyebrows at her.

“Is that a traditional method of eating food on Terra?” she asks, voice unimpressed but lips twitching slightly. 

“Time-honored,” he says seriously, then takes a bite. He moans out loud when the taste hits, closing his eyes to savor it. “You gotta try it.” 

He holds the strip out for her. She takes it delicately, sniffing it a couple times before taking a bite.

She freezes mid-chew, staring at the rest of the bacon. For a moment, he’s concerned that something’s wrong, that she doesn’t like it or she’s somehow allergic to it. But then she makes her own pleased noise and eats the rest in two bites. 

“Hey,” he says, laughing delightedly. “We’re supposed to share.” 

“We didn’t get enough to share,” she says, grabbing another piece, though there’s a small mountain on the platter. 

“You’re not even leaving any for the pancakes.” He grabs a long piece and lays it over the top of the stack. Then he takes two grapes from the bowl of fruit and puts them in the place of eyes. “A smiley face.” 

Gamora furrows her brow, now on her third piece of bacon. “It’s not smiling.” 

He sighs, picking up the ends of the strip to try to curve it, but it’s a useless effort without two hands. “Okay, fine.” He moves the grapes, plopping one on either side of the end of the bacon, then waggles his eyebrows at her again. 

“Peter.” She rolls her eyes, but she’s full-on smiling now. He doesn’t even care if she eats every last piece of bacon. 

“Oh, wait,” he says, reaching for the syrup bottle. He draws a line of syrup from the top of the bacon to the edge of the pancake, some of it spilling over onto the plate.

Gamora rolls her eyes and wrinkles her nose, but she doesn’t say anything. For a moment he thinks he’s gone too far, pushed her over into anger. But then she reaches out, snags the bacon, and eats it in a single bite.

“Um,” says Peter, swallowing. It’s been practically a lifetime since he even _thought_ about sex, and this _really_ isn’t the time or place. But also this is Gamora and, well…it’s not like his brain’s ever really given him a choice about that.

“Delicious,” she says, smacking her lips demonstratively, because of course she knows exactly what she’s doing to him. She picks up the grapes next, eating both of them in a single bite. “Aren’t you going to try your cream cakes?”

For a moment he thinks she’s made a mistake, or that the translator’s glitched. But he’s heard her talk about pancakes plenty of times before. Then he sees that she’s looking directly at the line of syrup he’s drawn, and groans. “Gamora. That was _awful._ ”

“I know,” she says sweetly. Then she puts on her most chivalrous face, uses both of her hands to cut the bite with the most syrup on it, and holds it out for him.

“Aw, babe, for me?” he asks, then eats it directly off her fork. The flavor of peanut butter is immediate and surprisingly euphoric. It takes him back to sunny mornings in the kitchen before school, to sticky sandwiches with the crust cut off. To those especially good days when he’d gotten to lick the spatula. To a time when he’d had no concept of illness or loss or death. He expects the memory to be followed with the familiar twist of sadness, but for now it doesn’t come.

“Good?” asks Gamora, rubbing his back, then dropping her head onto his shoulder for a moment, kissing the side of his neck. 

Peter gives her a squeeze, and for an instant can’t help thinking how lucky they are to be here right now, in spite of everything.

There will be a time to go to Xandar, he thinks. There will be a time to help other people pick up the pieces. But first he needs to see Gamora genuinely smile a few more times. First they’ll need a little more selfishness, and probably a lot more bacon.


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> HELLO EVERYONE welcome to chapter 8! You may notice that we've changed the expected number of chapters from 20 to ??????? and that is because this thing is turning out way longer than we originally anticipated. It turns out these dumb angels have a lot of feelings, so we keep having to split chapters up as we write and their feelings explode onto the page. We'll update it once we know for sure, but for now suffice to say it's gonna be more than 20 <333

Peter sits bolt upright in bed, disoriented and confused and already panicking. 

The first thing he does is check for Gamora; she’s here, sitting up next to him and holding a knife out in front of her. 

“What was that?” she asks, breathless. 

“I don’t know.”

Whatever noise woke him up must have been real, then. He shifts his body, throwing his arm out in front of her as he gathers himself, protecting her from whatever so-far-invisible threat startled them out of sleep. She may be the one with the weapon right now, but he’s just watched Thanos take her in his dreams and he’s not about to let anything happen to her again. 

She rests a shaky hand on his shoulder, leaning forward as if ready to jump out at any danger that may present itself. 

Peter scans the room, still not completely awake. The air conditioning continues to rattle away uselessly by the window; the ceiling fan’s on as high as it will go; it’s light outside, just like it was when they went to bed, so they can’t have been asleep for too long. 

There’s nothing out of the ordinary that he can see. Gamora’s got her eyes and her knife trained on the door, but he can’t hear anything. 

“It’s okay,” he tells her, trying to sound calm. “It was probably just something outside. Or—“ 

He furrows his brow at the nightstand on her side of the bed, where her holo sits. They’ve each instinctively kept theirs out, despite them basically being nothing more than useless bricks here. At least, that’s what they’d thought. But now there’s a little green light blinking on hers. 

“Did you...receive a message?” 

“What?” She follows his gaze and reaches for the holo slowly, as if afraid it’s going to bite her. Her hands are trembling again. She doesn’t let go of the knife, either, just holds it and the holo at the same time as she unlocks the screen. A message icon pops up next to what he recognizes as her contact image for Nebula. 

It’s a picture of the two of them, at a table on the Quadrant during one of Nebula’s occasional visits. They’re sitting across from each other, heads bent together in conversation, unaware--or, more likely, aware but choosing to ignore--that Peter’s standing a little ways away, taking this picture. There’s a smile dancing on Gamora’s lips, and Nebula looks the least terrifyingly murderous he ever sees her. 

“This can't be,” says Gamora, her fingers hovering over the message icon, not actually touching it yet. She's still shaking, her breath catching in her throat every few seconds. 

Peter reaches out, heart aching for her, and rests a hand against her back. Gamora jumps and gasps, dropping the holo and spinning toward him, knife out instinctively. He yanks his hand back but she catches herself immediately and scrambles away so quickly that she stumbles out of the bed, tangled in the sheets, and very nearly falls. 

“Fuck,” she breathes, wild-eyed, the most panicked he’s seen her since that first night, since the Stone had spit her out on the floor of the lab. “Peter, _fuck_ , I didn't--"

“I know,” he says immediately, horrified at himself, at what he's caused with just a thoughtless touch. It's not the first time this has happened, but it's been years and he _knows_ how it will haunt her. “I know, I know. That was my fault. I'm sorry.”

She shakes her head frantically, white-knuckled grip around the knife loosening as she drops it to the ground. “I almost—“ she gasps. “I could’ve—“ 

“I shouldn’t have touched you,” he says firmly, getting out of bed with only slightly more coordination than she had, legs getting caught in the sheets. He kicks his them off and stands in front of her, nearly crying when she takes a small step back. “It’s okay, Gamora, it’s not your fault. I’m okay. You’re okay. We’re on Earth, we’re in the motel—“ 

“I know where we are!” she snaps, then appears to regret it. She screws her eyes closed, as if shutting something out. He desperately wants to pull her into his arms, hug her until she feels better, but he’s not foolish enough to try touching her again when she’s in this state. 

“That’s the point,” she says shakily, opening her eyes and looking warily at the holo sitting on the bed. “I thought those didn’t work here.” 

“Well, apparently we were wrong. Can I--?” He gestures toward the holo, and she nods. 

“Do you think someone tampered with it?” asks Gamora. Her left hand is still clenched into a fist, though she's made no move to retrieve the knife. 

Peter has his doubts about that, but decides he’d better open the message before answering. He's at least pretty sure the holo isn't about to explode or anything. 

Seeing its contents, he exhales. “It's just a message from Nebula, exactly like it says.”

“How do you know it's from her?” asks Gamora, a muscle in her jaw twitching visibly. 

“Because,” says Peter. “It's her revenge kill count. She's taking out anyone who's ever been sympathetic to Thanos, just like she said she would.”

Her hand relaxes slightly. “How many?” 

“Nine,” he says, surprised though he probably shouldn’t be. “Damn, really? It’s only been like three days.” 

“Anything else?” she asks, visibly swallowing. 

“Um…also _I’m glad I’m not dead,_.” He blinks at the screen. “She must’ve meant she’s glad _you’re_ not dead.” 

“No,” Gamora says, suddenly snatching the holo from him. Her eyes scan over the words several times, grip on the holo gradually loosening. At first he thinks she’s just startled and confused by the message, but then he notices the water that’s welled up in her eyes. 

“Mora?” he says softly, standing as close as he can without touching her. “Are you okay?” 

“I'm fine,” she says absently, but doesn't look up from the holo. He watches as she runs a finger over the words on the screen, like she might somehow be able to physically connect with Nebula that way. 

Peter swallows, resisting the urge to touch her shoulder again. He hasn't even considered until now just _how_ much more relaxed she's gotten over the past few years, that he's almost managed to forget about the defensive instincts Thanos gave her. “Talk to me please? Tell me what it means?”

He can see the muscles in her throat working for a long moment before she manages to produce words. “She means she is glad that I prevented Thanos from killing her, by giving him the location of the Soul Stone. This is her version of gratitude.”

Suddenly he can't help remembering Titan, the cold rage in Nebula’s eyes and _you should have killed me._

“Oh,” he whispers, suddenly unable to form coherent thoughts of his own. It's all he can do to prevent himself from falling back into memory, from drowning in it. 

“He knew that I knew,” she says sharply, her tone filled with hatred now. “He _used_ her mods to take the memory from her. From both of us.”

It takes a second for the words to sink in past the dull ringing in his ears. He narrowly resists the urge to dig his fingers into his bandaged palm again, deciding instead to ground himself by focusing on his confusion when her words hit him. “He--he _took_ the memory?” 

Gamora nods. “Nebula’s mind is--” She pauses, hand hovering over the holo again. “Her memories are stored in files in her mind. He could access all of them and watch them like they’re a _show_ ,” she says with venom, like ‘show’ is a particularly horrible word. “Who knows how many other memories he watched? How much he knew.”

He struggles to come up with a proper response to that. Gamora has struggled, constantly, with the things he did to her, taught her, the fears and nightmares and pain they’ve left her with. For the past four years, every new detail he learned about Thanos--every memory Gamora’s casually mentioned over coffee or whispered to him in the early hours of the morning or cried about after waking up from a particularly haunting nightmare--has increased his horror and hatred of him. Apparently, it’s going to continue that way even now that he’s dead. 

At least now, though, there is _that_.

“He’s gone,” Peter says as firmly as his slightly hoarse voice will allow. “He’s dead. The memories are just yours again.” 

“He knew about you,” says Gamora, sounding slightly frantic. “About us. He _knew._ ”

His stomach clenches painfully at that, the memories coming back unbidden no matter how hard he tries to fight them. He tries to focus on the rattle of the air conditioner, on the breeze from the ceiling fan, but it's not enough. The next thing he knows, he's sweating so hard it's rolling down his face, chest tight and hands shaking violently. _The boyfriend,_ booms Thanos’ voice in his head again, dripping with contempt. _You expect too much from him._

“Peter?” 

He's dimly aware of her voice, but in his mind it mixes with the memory, with _not him_ and _you promised_ and the the overwhelming, sickening sense of surreality, that this _can't_ be happening, that he can't be about to lose her, because how could he possibly go on after that? He sinks to the edge of the bed without even registering the movement, rests his head in his hands and presses painfully against his temples again. 

He can’t hear anything over the pounding of his heartbeat. It’s so loud; impossibly, deafeningly loud. How is it even possible for it be this loud? Surely it’s going to burst. He’s holding a blaster to her neck and she’s crying and he’s crying and she’s telling him she loves him more than anything and she’s trusting him to do this. His hand is shaking, could he even hit her if he tried? 

“Breathe, Peter, breathe,” she’s telling him. “Come on, sweetheart, breathe with me. In and out, in and out.” 

But that’s not right, that’s not what she said. His hand is shaking where he holds the blaster but it’s shaking against his head, too, both of them are. Her hands are on his arms, then over his hands, stroking the backs of them and telling him over and over to “breathe.”

He does his best to listen; shaky breaths, in and out, deep and slow and unsteady until his heart is no longer threatening to burst out through his eardrums. He can hear her more clearly now. She must be right in front of him.

Suddenly he can see her, too, though she’s blurry until he blinks away tears. She’s pried his hands away from his face, is holding them between her own where she’s crouched on the floor, looking up at him. His hands are soaked with his own tears. She’s crying too, but not as much as him, and she’s looking at him with so much love and oh, god, she looks almost the same as when Thanos took her. 

But it’s not. It’s different. She’s not looking at him like this is the last time she’ll ever see him, like he’s the last thing she’ll ever see. There’s just sympathy and concern and love in her gaze. 

She keeps his hands cupped between hers and tells him again to breathe. Her hands are no longer trembling. 

“Are you with me?” she asks, after another moment. Her voice is mostly steady, though still concerned. 

Peter takes another couple of difficult breaths, then nods, the rest of the hotel room coming back into focus as the tunnel around his vision recedes. He’s never expected to be so glad to see this shitty place.

“Yeah,” he manages finally, surprised by the tone of his own voice, by how small and broken it still sounds. “Yes. Shit, sorry. I was--”

“I know,” she interrupts. “You don’t have to apologize.”

“You were telling me about what he did to you,” says Peter, swallowing. “And I--”

“And _I_ pulled a knife on you a few minutes ago,” she says pointedly, the slightest hint of a tremor in those words.

“I--” This time he cuts himself off, trying to tamp down on the instinct to continue down the guilt spiral. That’s not what she wants and he knows it. She’s been perfectly clear. “What are you trying to say? I’m sorry, my brain is--kind of on fire right now.”

“I’m saying,” she says firmly, “that he hurt _both_ of us. Not just me.”

“Oh.” He blows out another breath, can’t really deny that, much as he wishes he could just focus on taking care of her. “I--yeah. That’s true.”

She rubs circles on the back of one of his hands with her thumb, the movement almost hypnotic. “This is what I was always afraid of,” she admits in a whisper, watching her thumb move. “Thanos hurting you because of me; because of what you mean to me.”

“It’s not your fault,” he says immediately, not wanting her to heap any more blame onto herself. “And he can’t anymore. He can’t hurt either of us.”

He realizes the absurdity of that statement as soon as he says it. Of course he can still hurt them; he’s doing it right now, even though he’s been dead for days. 

Thankfully, Gamora doesn’t mention this, though he can see in the tight line of her mouth that she’s thinking it. She just nods, then lifts his hands to kiss his knuckles before slowly standing and touching his cheek. “Are you okay?”

“Yeah,” he says automatically, though his heart rate still leaves something to be desired. He’s a hell of a lot better than he was a couple minutes ago, anyway. His eyes drift to the floor behind her, where she’s apparently dropped the holo. “Are you?”

She follows his gaze, then sighs. “Yes,” she says, accepting the slight change of subject, for which he’s grateful. Her hand drops from his face and she goes over to retrieve the fallen holo. “Nebula sent that message over a day ago. Possibly right after our--conversation.”

“There must be a delay in signal here,” Peter says, though that much is obvious. He needs to talk about something though, something besides the horrible memories that keep playing in his head.

“I noticed,” says Gamora. She comes back over to sit beside him on the edge of the bed, not quite leaning but close enough that her shoulder is touching his. She still has Nebula’s message pulled up on the screen, and he tenses again at the sight of it. 

“What are you doing?” asks Peter, wondering whether she needs to talk it through more, whether she’s obsessing about it despite her attempts to comfort him, to make him feel better about having a meltdown over a message from _her_ goddamn sister.

Gamora arches an eyebrow at him. “Sending a reply? Might take a day or two, but it’s better than nothing. I don’t--I want her to know that she’s not alone. Especially now.”

Peter swallows a fresh wave of guilt at the realization that Nebula must be just as affected by all of this, if not moreso. Nebula’s grown, sure, but she doesn’t have the years of progress Gamora’s made. Nebula’s emotional wounds are so much more raw, and so much deeper. And Nebula doesn’t have anyone to take care of her through all of this, because she hasn’t allowed herself that luxury. 

Clearing his throat, he glances sideways, sees that Gamora’s typing, her fingers practically silent on the holo’s display. He can’t read the whole message, and wouldn’t feel right doing that unless she offered, but he can’t help catching sight of the words _I am also glad that you are alive._

She’s at it for quite a while, whatever she’s writing a lot more extensive than Nebula’s message, though he knows that doesn’t necessarily mean there’s more feeling behind it. He still needs Gamora to translate a lot of what Nebula says into what she actually means (and Gamora herself isn’t perfect at it even after these years of being closer to her), but he knows that Nebula loves her sister. 

Gamora sets the holo aside when she’s finally done, looking a bit calmer, something in her expression clearer than before. Her focus shifts back to him.

Before he can say anything--and he’s not sure what he would say, honestly, no idea how he could convey ‘sorry again about you and your sister being tortured and stuff’ without upsetting both of them again--she rests her hand lightly on his arm and asks, “Are you sure you’re all right?”

“Yeah, totally,” he says without thought, keeping his voice as light and breezy as he can. “I’m fine.”

She stiffens up again quickly and guilt shoots through him, realizing he’s done something wrong. 

“Peter,” she sighs. “We just talked about this. Don’t hide from me.”

“I’m not.” He stands up and shoving his jittery hands into his pockets. He’s still dressed, both of them having fallen asleep in their clothes almost the second they got back to the room earlier. “I’m not--okay, so I’m not _fine_ ,” he admits. That much is obvious. “I just...feel like I need to get out of this room. Do you wanna go do something?” 

Gamora blinks at him, clearly surprised, clearly not entirely believing him. “Do you really think that’s a good idea right now?”

Coming from anyone else, he’d be offended by that tone, by the way it’s just a bit patronizing. From Gamora it just hurts, because he _knows_ it means she’s worried about him, trying to protect him from his own dumb decisions. 

“I don’t know,” he admits, because he owes her that much at least. “But I don’t wanna keep thinking about-- _things_ , you know?” 

It’s vague but she obviously understands, her expression shifting more toward empathy as she nods.

He continues, the words coming faster and with more certainty at even that small bit of approval. “We need a distraction, I think. And nothing in here _works_ so it’s not like we can just turn on the television or something.”

“All right,” she relents. “But--something that doesn’t involve too many people.”

“Right,” says Peter, encouraged by her agreement. “Right, we can do that.” It occurs to him then that they never did have their ill-fated discussion about things to do in the area, since he’s now managed to derail things _twice_ with his stupid emotions. 

“You want the phones?” asks Gamora, apparently following his train of thought even though he hasn’t said it aloud.

He considers, knowing that _was_ the whole reason he went outside last night and got himself into that whole mess, but right now he’s feeling jittery, wired, ready to move. The idea of sitting still long enough to figure out how to work that tech and do a search sounds like a recipe for frustration. Instead he shakes his head. “Let’s just head out. We can ask Knight Rider to search the area for us.”

Gamora offers a wry smile at that. “I’m sure he’ll be so pleased to help us.”

* * *

“Are we there yet?”

“We are approximately ten minutes and thirty-two seconds away from the destination,” Knight Rider replies. “Two minutes and seventeen seconds closer than the last time you asked.”

“I don’t think you know what ‘approximately’ means,” Peter grumbles. 

“I am equipped with a dictionary of over--”

“Blah, blah, I get it,” he says dismissively. “You’re super smart.” 

Gamora rolls her eyes. “You bicker with the car more than you do with Rocket.”

“Don’t tell Rocket,” he says. “He’ll get jealous.”

She shakes her head but there’s a smirk on her lips and Peter calls that a win. 

In truth, he’s not even that bored or annoyed with the drive, despite it being longer than he’d anticipated. It turns out that there really isn’t anything to do in the immediate area of Mill Hall (besides a haunted house, which they’d vetoed immediately), and a couple state parks a short distance away, so they’d decided on the closest of those.

Peter’s still restless, foot bouncing against the floorboard in impatience, but Gamora’s in a relatively good mood which only improves the farther away they get from any populated areas, not that there was much of that in Mill Hall. 

“Hey, Knight Rider--”

“Nine minutes and fifty-six seconds.”

“Thanks, smartass, but that’s not what I was gonna ask,” Peter says. 

“My apologies, Mr. Star-Lord.”

“I’m just kidding.” He grins. “It was.”

He’s met with silence from Knight Rider and another head-shake from Gamora, but she’s still smiling. 

“Although, I do have another request.” He waits, but apparently Knight Rider is sulking because he doesn’t respond, so Peter sighs and continues. “Could you turn up the music? I can barely hear it. And _not too loud_.”

“Certainly, Mr. Star-Lord.”

It’s another familiar song, but not one he can place by name. The melody washes over him and for some reason he can’t remember clearly, it soothes him. Perhaps it’s just the soft rhythm. “What song is this?”

“ _Show Me the Way_ , by Peter Frampton. 1975.”

“Do you know it?” Gamora asks quietly. 

“Yeah,” he says, hand hovering over the dash as if he’ll be able to feel it. “I think I do.” 

It’s another moment where he can’t produce an exact memory, but he knows from the bittersweet burn of nostalgia that he _has_ heard it before. Probably on the radio, probably with his mother. Maybe on one of the rare nights where he’d actually managed to finish his homework early, and as a reward they’d listened to music and danced in the kitchen. 

He zones out, running his mind back through the fractured catalogue of memories from that time, like looking at fragments of shattered china. A moment here and there, but nothing solid, nothing complete.

The next thing he knows, the car’s pulling to a stop, and he shakes himself, immediately prepared for more bickering. “Knight Rider, what--”

“We’re here,” Gamora interrupts, laying a hand on his arm.

“Correct,” says Knight Rider. “We have arrived at your destination in precisely the time I said we would.”

“Oh,” Peter grumps, thrown by the way he’s lost track of time. “Well isn’t that nice for you.”

“It is,” Knight Rider says pleasantly. “Might I suggest the trailhead approximately forty-five degrees and two hundred forty-two feet away? That trail is indicated as beginner level.”

“And _why_ would you think we’d want beginner level?” asks Peter, immediately deciding that the car is definitely insulting him.

“Based on your current biometrics--”

“We wanted something relaxing,” Gamora interrupts, apparently not as offended as he’s prepared to be. “And we’ve only got an hour or two of daylight left.”

He makes a face, but nods. “All right. But we can _totally_ handle like, intermediate level at least.” 

“I know you can,” she says placatingly. Knight Rider stays silent. 

The parking lot--if a small pull-off in front of the woods with only five spots can be called a parking lot--is empty except for them, so he supposes Knight Rider did his job there; they’d asked him for somewhere secluded. 

The park and trail themselves aren’t much to write home about. There’s lots of trees, stretching farther than he can see on either side of them. The mountain—hill? He was never clear on the difference—the trail goes up is kind of tall, he supposes, so maybe that’ll at least be a good view. It’s something to do,at least, and they’re alone. 

“We’ll be back for you later,” he says to Knight Rider. “Try not to miss us too much.” 

He turns the car off before it can respond. 

“Have you ever considered not provoking our means of transport?” Gamora asks as they step out of the car. 

“Oh, he loves me,” he says dismissively. 

“If he abandons us in the woods,” says Gamora, “I’m blaming you.”

Peter gives her his most wounded look. “You would never!” (Though she absolutely would, he knows, and she does have a point. He’s pretty sure Knight Rider is entirely under his control, but it hasn’t occurred to him to think about how autonomous Stark’s AI’s might be.) “And besides, he would never. He’s my best pal.”

She just shakes her head and takes off across the parking lot, toward the start of the trail.

He has to jog a couple steps to catch up, but he does and it’s worth it. The beginning of the trail, at least, is wide enough that they can walk side by side. Peter hesitates for only a moment before grabbing her hand, absolutely grinning when she lets him. Despite everything, it’s not lost on him that this is yet another one of his lifelong dreams--just casually doing a fun activity while holding hands with the most amazing woman in the galaxy. True, it’s far from the first thing he’s done with Gamora, but they’re here on _Earth_ , so it’s different.

“You are easily pleased,” she says with a small smile. 

“Only by you.” 

Keeping hold of her hand becomes a struggle before long, though. The trail, which had started off wide and paved, narrows gradually as they get farther into the woods, until they’re walking on an uphill dirt path that’s barely got room for one of them. 

That doesn’t mean he doesn’t try, though. 

“Peter,” she says, exasperated as she has to stop yet again. 

“It’s not my fault you’re walking too fast!” 

“Perhaps we don’t need to hold hands the entire time,” she suggests. “I’m practically pulling you.” 

“No you’re not!” he says automatically, then immediately stumbles on some loose leaves and has to use her arm to steady himself. 

Back on stable--if steep--ground, Peter shakes his head, aiming his expression at cool nonchalance again. “Okay, that didn’t count. But you’re totally not pulling me. Does this look like pulling me?” 

Stepping off the side of the trail, he does a couple of kicks, then tries his best to moonwalk up the hill, which goes about as well as he probably should have expected. It sends a cloud of dirt into the air, which makes him cough, though he’s only moved a few inches in the process.

Still, Gamora is smiling indulgently, fanning the air in front of her face and shaking her head. “Next you’re going to fall on your ass and then I’ll have to carry you back to the car.”

Peter scoffs. “That would never happen!”

She arches an eyebrow. “Really? You mean like how it never happened on Acluna?”

He waves her off. “That was totally different! Those were _battle_ wounds!”

“Tripping and twisting your ankle counts as a battle wound?” 

He sputters indignantly. “It does if it happens while we’re battling!” 

“It happened _after_.”

“Like, barely,” he says dismissively. 

“So, what’s the window for when a wound can count as a battle wound?” she asks, clearly entertained. 

He considers, trying to remember how soon after that particular battle he’d hurt himself. “Fifteen minutes.” 

She shakes her head. “If you didn’t sustain it during the battle, it is not a battle wound.” 

He presses his lips together, trying not to smile. Gamora’s got that glint in her eye that means she’s enjoying an argument because she knows she’s about to win, and he’ll do anything to keep that happy look there. Even if she’s totally wrong. 

“Fine. So it happened _one time_.” 

“So far,” says Gamora. “If you keep up like this, it’s going to be _two time._ ” She parrots his tone exaggeratedly, and waggles her eyebrows in the way she almost always does when she thinks she’s imitating him.

Peter’s relatively sure he’s never actually done that in his life, but it’s _adorable_ and he’s sure not going to discourage her from doing it.

“I’m not the one who’s hiking in heels,” he points out, gesturing to her boots. Not that they seem to be causing her any trouble. He knows that Gamora practically lives in those things and considers them completely functional. He’s seen her run in them, fight in them...hell, one time he watched her scale an actual cliff face in them, just like it was nothing. Today she has yet to even break a sweat, despite the increasingly steep incline.

“You are also not the one with a cybernetically enhanced skeleton,” she says pointedly, and turns around to continue moving.

“Sure, throw _that_ in my face,” he says, then winces, wondering if it was a bad idea to joke about a part of her that Thanos created, if he’s going to ruin her good mood.

It doesn’t seem to bother her, though. She glances back at him briefly, a playful smile on her face, and mimes throwing something at him. He pretends to catch it and grins triumphantly, thinking this hiking thing was a pretty good idea. 

But after about half a minute of hiking without holding her hand, he’s forced to admit to himself that maybe she _was_ pulling him a little. Or the trail just got ridiculously steeper. Yeah, he’s gonna go with that. Because there’s no other reason his lungs would be burning so much otherwise. 

“Are we there yet?” 

“I don’t have a GPS system,” Gamora says without turning around. 

“We could use our holos,” he points out. “They can still scan the immediate area.”

“I’m sure we’re almost there, Peter. Be patient.”

He sighs, because her definition of “almost” is a lot different from his. Then he gets a brilliant idea: _some_ of his tech functions perfectly well here.

“What do you say we finish the rest of this climb in style?” He activates his rocket boots, actually managing to hover a few feet above the ground instead of accidentally throwing himself down the mountain or into a tree or something. 

Gamora looks up at him, shaking her head, equal parts incredulous and affectionate. “Seriously?”

“Totally serious!” says Peter, engaging the thrusters to hover a bit higher, then flying a circle around her head, careful not to get too close. The last thing he wants to do is knock her off balance or something. “I’m always serious. The _most_ serious! Also the coolest.”

She swats at him as he flies a second circle, as though he might be some sort of insect buzzing around her. “Peter!”

“Race you to the top!” he teases, zooming a few yards up the trail before doubling back and floating in front of her. “No? Afraid I’ll win?”

“I thought the point of this was to hike,” says Gamora. “I believe you said something about physical activity and fresh air.”

“And we got both those things,” says Peter. “Now we’re gonna finish like rockstars. No, wait. Like superheroes! ‘Cause we are, babe!” Swooping down, he wraps an arm around her waist and the other under her knees, lifting her smoothly.

“Peter!” she squeals, not that she’ll ever admit to making such a sound.

He laughs joyfully as they weave up the path. The trees are starting to thin out up ahead; that must be the top of the hill. “What? This is how all the superheroes carry their girls!” 

“Even if the girl is a superhero, too?” 

It’s a good thing the path is widening again, because if it were any narrower there’s a good chance he’d have just flown them into a tree, too busy grinning down at her over the fact that she didn’t deny her own superhero-ness to pay attention. 

“ _Especially_ then.” 

The sun is low on the horizon when they clear the trees and Peter lands them at the top of the hill. Gamora slides down gracefully, keeping her arms around his neck. 

“This is the part where you kiss me and say ‘my hero,’” he says, extremely pleased with himself and her and this whole hiking plan. 

But she’s not paying attention. 

Peter’s got his back to the view, focused only on Gamora’s face as she takes it in. He’s expected her to be pleased, to show _some_ sense of enthusiasm for what he’s sure is at least a mediocre display of Earth’s natural beauty. Instead she looks lost, not displeased exactly, just...very far away. Almost like she’s looking straight through him and the rest of the evening.

“Gamora?” he asks cautiously, because it’s clear she’s absorbed in _something_ inside of her head, and he hasn’t forgotten what a disaster startling her was earlier this afternoon.

She doesn’t respond for long enough that he’s about to say her name again, is considering whether it’s worth giving her some sort of a physical reminder of where she is, especially considering that she’s still got her arms around his neck.

But then she shakes herself, blinks, and smiles a bit sheepishly. “Sorry. Just--a pretty sunset.” She lets go of him carefully and takes half a step backward. “You should look at it.”

Concerned, he turns around to see what he’s missed, half-afraid there’s going to be a crowd of people standing behind him or something, but all he sees are trees and hills and sky. It _is_ a pretty sunset, yellows and oranges and reds transforming the sky.

And looking a whole lot like the Soul Stone. 

He curses under his breath, quickly swiveling around again to face her. She’s staring at the view again, her expression still far away, but thankfully not as absent or trance-like as it had been back at the Compound, the last time they’d seen a sunset like this. 

“I--” he begins, then cuts himself off. His instinct is to apologize profusely for bringing them here, the plan that less than a minute ago he was congratulating himself on having suddenly turned south. She seems to be doing her best to pretend the view isn’t affecting her, though, and he wonders if it wouldn’t be better for him to follow her lead. 

Apparently unaware of his internal struggle, Gamora still has her gaze focused on the sunset when she speaks again. “Can I ask you something?”

“Anything.”

She’s quiet again for a while, so long that he’s once again wondering whether he needs to do something to snap her out of this, before she speaks, finally dragging her eyes back to his. “What was it like? When you saw eternity?” 

“Oh,” says Peter, taken aback. Whatever he was expecting her question to be, it was most definitely not this. He takes a deep breath, tries to swallow down the urge to make a joke about that particular experience or otherwise laugh it off. It's not one he makes a habit of thinking about, but if she's finally ready to open up about what's going on with her… “It was weird. It was like--being everywhere at once. But not just like _I_ was there, like...like I wasn't me anymore. I was everyone and everything at once, but just--just not me.”

“So you ceased to exist in that moment?” she asks, a bit hesitantly. 

He nods, then shrugs. “I guess--kinda? Part of me did. The human part, I think. The rest of me was--maybe more there than I'd ever considered before.”

She's quiet for another long moment. “And now? What are you now?”

“I’m just--me, I guess,” he says, confused by this question, too. “Human. I definitely prefer it this way.”

“No, I mean…” She pauses, perhaps trying to figure out what exactly she does mean. “Is it still there? Do you still see it?”

_Oh,_ he thinks, following her gaze again to the sunset. “Every once in a while,” he says honestly. “In dreams. A lot less than I used to, though.” He hesitates, but when she doesn’t ask anything else or take her eyes off the sky, he continues. “Are you still seeing something?”

“I’m not crazy,” she snaps, suddenly squeezing her eyes shut. “I’m not--hallucinating.”

“Hey, I know,” he says gently. “That’s not what I meant. I meant it the way you asked me.” Though he’s not entirely sure what way that is. 

She sighs, finally looking at him. There’s something swirling in her eyes, haunted and sad. “Can I ask you one more question?”

“Of course,” he says, though he’s apprehensive about what it might be. He wants to know what’s been going on with her, but at the same time is a little scared to find out. 

“Did you see… What was it like when you held the Stone? What did you see?”

“I didn't--" he says automatically, then cuts himself off. He's been ready to deny seeing anything, to continue insisting that it hasn't hurt him at all, that everything is perfectly fine. That's not fair, though, and it's not what she wants. 

Peter takes a deep breath, pauses for a long moment, trying to center himself. He's been avoiding thinking about this as much as possible, knows that it has the potential to pull him in and down and drown him just like the images of Thanos at the Collector's did earlier today. Still, he's seeing it in his dreams every night, practically every time he closes his eyes. It's not like avoiding it is sparing him that. 

It helps that the day is warm, and her hands are warm, and he's holding them firmly. 

“I saw--snow,” he says finally. “A planet covered in snow and ice. You at the top of a cliff and then--" He breaks off, can't make himself say the words. “Is that where you were? The whole time?”

“Peter,” she breathes. She squeezes one of his hands, her gaze somehow even _sadder_. “No. That’s where I--” She must see something in his face because she mercifully doesn’t finish that sentence. He knows what happened there. “That was Vormir. After, I was...somewhere else.”

“Inside the Stone?” 

She nods. “Or a realm it controls. And that controls it, to some extent.” 

“Was it--?” He nods towards the sunset, the view that always seems to put something in her head. 

“The colors were warm,” she says slowly, staring at them again. “A lot like this. But it was cold. Not like a biting, snow-storm cold, but a hollow, empty one. Like being out in space with no suit.”

_I hate the cold_ , she’d said, after she’d come back. He takes a shaky breath, trying to swallow down the tears and righteous anger that flows through him at that, wishing he could spend hours punching Thanos over and over for what he’s done to her. 

“Gamora,” he whispers, heart aching, then can't find any other words to express how he's feeling and doesn't trust his voice besides. She might want to take care of him, but what she _needs_ in this moment is for him to be able to listen, to be able to hear what she went through. He failed to do that on the Benatar, after he’d given her back the Godslayer. He isn't going to let it happen again. 

Fortunately she doesn't require more coaxing, doesn't try to shut herself off like she has before. Maybe she's sensing how hard he's trying, or maybe it's the fact that they're here, essentially standing a few yards away from the edge of another cliff. 

“Time passed differently there,” says Gamora. “Or--Or didn't pass, I'm not sure. Either way, it was a few days here, but-- _years_ , at least, there.” 

_I missed you,_ he remembers she'd said, and something twists in his gut at the new meaning that takes on. 

“ _Fuck_ , Mora.” His voice is trembling, and so are his hands--or possibly it’s hers. Or both. He wants to collapse and hold her and go join Nebula’s revenge-killing spree all at the same time, but none of those things are what she needs. 

“What was it like?” he asks tentatively. “Was there--stuff?”

“Sort of,” she says, voice far away but strangely calm. “Only a little, at first. Sometimes things I was thinking of would--materialize. Like a shadow. Then disappear again. Until I learned to control it.”

“So you...sculpted your environment?”

“In a way.” Her face contorts painfully and it’s a struggle for him not to pull her to him. “Everything was still shadows. Still not quite there. But it was better than nothing. I made… I made home. The ship. The Benatar, sometimes, and the Milano, but mostly the Quadrant. The kitchen, the living quarters. Our room.”

She trails off, but there’s more, he knows it. There’s a wobble in her lower lip and her throat is working like she’s preparing to say something, so he stays silent, waits. 

“I tried to make…” She shakes her head, tears her eyes away from the sunset and looks down at the ground beneath their feet. Her voice is small when she continues. “Apparently, you can’t make people. Even shadows of them.” 

“You--Who did you try to make?” asks Peter, though he knows, of _course_ he knows, of course he would have done the same were their positions reversed. 

She just looks at him for a long moment in answer, her eyes fathomless and swimming with tears she won't allow to fall. 

“I'm sorry,” she breathes finally, her voice so small it's barely audible. “I'm sorry. I know it wouldn't have really been you, but if I _couldn't_ have the real you, then…”

“Don't,” he says quickly. “God, don't apologize. Just--What can I do? Is there anything?”

She shakes her head, offers him a rueful smile. “You know, when I first met you...when I let myself get to know you...It felt like I had been dead for a long time without knowing it. Like you were bringing back parts of myself I had completely forgotten.”

God, how can she say the sweetest, saddest, most romantic things all at once? 

“So you want me to do that again?” he says, searching her face. He can do that, he can do absolutely anything it will take as soon as he stops trembling and feeling like his heart is going to explode. 

But she’s shaking her head again. “I haven’t forgotten, Peter. I could never, now.”

“Then...what can I do?” he asks again. There has to be _something_. 

“Just keep being you,” she says, still with that little smile, though it’s more affectionate than sad now. “Love me. Be with me.”

He takes a shuddery breath and can’t help but lean his forehead against hers. Thankfully, she doesn’t start or jump away. Instead, she tilts her head up so their contact is more complete, reaching up to touch his cheek. He hasn’t even noticed he’s crying until she wipes away a tear. 

“You’re all I need,” she says, soft but vehement. 

He nods very slightly, careful not to break contact. “You’ve got me. As long as I live.” 

_She_ is his eternity.


	9. Chapter 9

“What is unique about the walls?” asks Gamora, twisting around in her seat and leaning up to the window to try and get a closer look at the buildings as Knight Rider pulls into the large parking lot, which is surprisingly busy for well after midnight.

“Huh?” Peter asks distractedly.

“You said that this is a Wall Mart,” says Gamora, turning back to look at him over her shoulder, her gaze very slightly suspicious. “All buildings here appear to have walls, so I would assume there must be something unique about the walls of a Wall Mart? Unless you meant that they _sell_ walls, in which case I am not sure why you brought me here since what we need is food.”

“ _Oh._ ” He practically slaps himself in the forehead, realizing that this is yet another instance of the same blunder he’s been making for years where he accidentally tells her something that sounds misleading, all the while assuming that she’s following along with his Earth references. “No, not ‘wall’ like--like that kind of wall. ‘Wal,’ like...someone’s name, I think? I think it’s named after someone named Wally, or at least that’s what my mom used to call it. ‘Wally World.’”

Gamora blinks and he can practically see the struggle going on in her head--her habitual irritation at these misunderstandings warring with the fact that he’s just made a reference to his mother, which is always practically sacred to her. Before she has a chance to say anything, though, Knight Rider interrupts by slamming to a halt and cursing.

“Oh, for god’s sake!” he exclaims, then honks at another car that’s just pulled into a parking space in front of them. “I clearly indicated that I was intending to turn in there! Honestly, human drivers are the _worst._ ”

Peter leans forward and pats the dash. “It’s okay, buddy, you’ll get the next one.”

“It is the _principle_ ,” Knight Rider says, pulling into another spot a couple spaces down, once the woman ambling in front of it finally gets out of the way. 

“I know,” Peter says placatingly. “Want Gamora to stab the driver for you?”

She shakes her head fondly, the offer a familiar one. He often requests that she stab people who irritate or inconvenience him; she tells him she will glady stab any of his enemies should they really deserve it.

“I have already scanned the man’s license plate,” the car informs them, “and discovered that his registration has expired. I will be informing the authorities.”

Gamora looks concerned. “Is he going to get arrested? That seems disproportionate to the offense.” 

“Nah,” Peter says, then realizes he doesn’t actually _know_ what crimes incur what punishments here. “Right?”

“He will be fined approximately $112.50.” 

“That seems fair,” Peter says, looking to Gamora for approval. She shrugs. He takes that as acceptance. “Okay! Knight Rider seems like he’s got the parking lot vengeance covered, wanna go in?” 

She glances out the window apprehensively, taking in all the cars and people. He knows instantly where her mind is and heads her off. “Trust me, babe. If I remember anything about this place right, you will not be the most unusual person in there.” 

“Are there other--aliens in there?” asks Gamora, slipping gracefully out of the car. Her hand goes instinctively to the Godslayer at her hip, not drawing it, but clearly reassuring herself that it’s there. “Actually, you know what? I don’t want to know.”

Anywhere else the sword might be a problem, but here he doesn’t think anyone will so much as bat an eye. Plus, it’s not like she’s got the blade exposed. Most people on Earth probably won’t have the slightest idea what it is or how it works.

“Ready?” asks Peter, moving to stand by her side. He offers her a hand, waits until she nods and takes it before starting toward the entrance.

They’ve ended up parked a couple of rows away, which means plenty of abandoned shopping carts and suspicious-looking puddles to dodge. In front of the entrance, there’s a couple of benches, and on one of those benches is a man who looks as drunk as a Ravager and smells about as bad as one too.

“Hey!” he calls out to them. “Hey!”

“Sorry,” says Peter, pretty sure he knows what the next part of this is going to be. “We don’t have any units to spare.”

“Nahhhh!” The man waves him off, nearly falls off the bench in the process of gesturing, then moves to point straight at Gamora. “Her!”

“She’s not for sale,” says Peter, stepping in front of her, instantly on the defensive.

The man laughs, which somehow only makes him stink worse. “I don’ wan’ her! I think I know ‘er!”

“Um,” says Gamora, sounding more confused than alarmed. “How do--”

“Is your name Melissa?” he slurs. “Think you were my babysitter!”

“You must have the wrong person,” Gamora mutters, then grabs Peter’s shirt sleeve and tugs him inside. 

“Always had a crush on you!” the man calls after them. 

Peter glances at her once they’ve reached the (relative) safety of indoors. She still appears more bemused than anything. “Is there a bar in here or something?” she asks, glancing around.

“Not that I remember.” Of course, that could be the thirty years since he’d last been inside a Wal-Mart speaking, but he’s pretty sure it was just for shopping. They could easily have added one, though. After all, he had no idea Wal-Mart sold food until Knight Rider informed them about a half an hour ago. 

The entryway where the shopping carts are kept looks like a warehouse, with weird cement walls and floors, a big contrast to the well-lit store on the other side of an archway. He’s in the process of grabbing the least rusty cart he can find--these, apparently, haven’t been updated since the 80s--when a teenager in a pink hat with bunny ears rides past them on a skateboard. 

“Hey,” she says to Gamora, still moving. “Cool cosplay. Who’re you supposed to be?” 

Gamora looks at a loss. Peter, assuming the girl means _costume_ , blurts out the first thing he can think of. “She’s a Ninja Turtle!”

“Nice.” The girl speeds off, chugging something from a purple can with the word ‘Monster’ written across it. 

Gamora stares after her for a long moment before turning back to Peter, blinking. “I--what--Was that something sexual? A cost play? What _is_ that?”

“No, no,” says Peter, with more confidence than he feels. In truth he’s not really sure what she said or what she meant, but he’d just as soon not have it make Gamora uncomfortable. “She just thought you were wearing a costume and she wanted to know what it was.”

She nods slowly, appearing to accept that at least in part. “And--what did you call me?”

“A Ninja Turtle!” says Peter, then realizes that she probably doesn’t know what that is, and how it might sound. “Which! Is totally not just because your skin is green! I mean, yeah, their skin was green because they were turtles but they were also, like, super cool and badass and heroes!”

She shakes her head, apparently deciding she’s heard enough of this particular explanation. “Have you finished selecting a shopping device?”

“Yep,” he says, gesturing to his selection. There’s what looks like a dried-up baby wipe inside it, which he’d take out but he doesn’t really want to touch it. “Only the finest.” 

“You’re too kind,” she says dryly. 

She’s tense when they walk into the store proper, looking around with her hand hovering near her sword, probably unconsciously. There’s a few people in the area, but none of them so much as give Gamora a second glance, or even a first one. They just go about their business, shopping or, in one man’s case, drinking out of something in a brown paper bag. Maybe this place _is_ a pseudo-bar now. 

“I don’t see any food,” Gamora comments. The two of them have paused only a few feet in, unsure where to go. It’s a lot bigger than Peter remembers. There’s clothing on their right, toiletries on their left. Ahead of them there are signs for “electronics” and “toys” and “shoes.” 

He’s very tempted by the “toys” sign. 

“I’m sure it’s here somewhere.” He glances around again, doesn’t immediately see food, and shrugs. “Let’s just walk the perimeter, we’re bound to run into it eventually. And maybe we’ll see other good stuff while we’re at it.”

She still looks apprehensive, but nods, following him. They’ve only gone a little ways when they find themselves in the middle of the clothes department. They’re in the men’s area at the moment, but it gives him an idea anyway.

“Hey,” he says brightly. “How about we get some clothes too?”

Gamora furrows her brow. “We have plenty of clothes packed along.”

“I know,” he allows, “but they’re--they’re not _Earth_ clothes, you know? We might not draw as much attention if we, you know, dress like the locals.”

She considers. “All right. Then please demonstrate how to dress like a local.”

“Sure thing!” Peter says brightly, though in truth he has no idea what’s in fashion on Earth right now. Still, he’s pretty sure he can pick some things out from the offerings here. He’s got a good sense of style in general, so all he needs to do is look around and--

He freezes, gasping at the sight of a display a few feet away, his heart practically pounding out of his chest.

“Peter?” Gamora asks, clearly alarmed. “What is it?”

“It’s--That’s merchandise for a Star Wars movie,” he breathes shakily. “A _new_ one.”

“I thought those movies ended when you were a child.”

“They did.” He approaches the display slowly. “I...I guess they made another one.” 

He’s drawn to one of the shirts immediately, the word _Solo_ emblazoned upon it in a font that tugs cherished memories to the front of his mind. He gasps again. 

“Oh my god, babe,” he says, grinning wildly. He shows Gamora the shirt. “It’s about Han Solo!”

“Ah.” She smiles indulgently. “Your favorite.”

“Yes!” he says, holding the shirt and looking at another one that’s got the Millenium Falcon on it. “This is _awesome_. The actor must be super old by now, but not like Han Solo would ever be done being the coolest _fictional_ space outlaw there is.” 

He’s more than prepared to keep babbling, but after adding the Millenium Falcon shirt to his arm, too, he examines the next one on the rack and pauses, smile falling. “Wait… This isn’t Han Solo.” 

Gamora comes over to look, too. “It’s not?” 

“ _No_.” The shirt has a picture of Chewbaca standing next to someone who’s _dressed_ like Han Solo, who’s got similar hair to Han Solo, but who definitely isn’t Han Solo. 

His heart starts hammering again, the sensation distinctly unpleasant. “They--they _recast_ him. They can’t… They can’t _do_ that! They can’t just change Star Wars!” 

She rests a hand on his shoulder, rubbing gently. “If Star Wars is as important to Terran culture as you have told me, then I'm sure there's a reasonable explanation. You said he would be old by now, yes? Perhaps he wished to retire and passed on the mantle.”

Peter can't quite get the frown off his face, though he's hearing her on some level. It isn't even so much that this is Star Wars specifically, he realizes. It's more that this is the furthest he’s felt from his home planet for a while and yet here he is, standing right on it. “I don't know. Passed it on to some kid who just happened to dress the same and have the same name? It was his _actual_ name, not like an outlaw one.”

“Then perhaps this story takes place in the past,” Gamora suggests. 

He sighs, shakes his head skeptically. But then another shirt on the display catches his eye and suddenly he doesn't feel so despondent anymore. 

He grabs it quickly, holding it up. “ _This_ is Han Solo! The real one! And this is Princess Leia.”

She looks, smiling, then reaches out to run a finger over Leia's image. “This is the one I am supposed to be?”

Peter grins. “Yes! What do you think?”

Gamora considers for a moment. “I think she needs a sword.”

“She should totally have a lightsaber!” he says eagerly. “Maybe she gets one in the new movie…”

“I bet she does,” Gamora says, clearly still trying to make him feel better. It’s the fact that she’s trying more than the actual words that helps. 

“Okay, so we’re getting these.” He tosses two of the shirts into the cart. “And these.” There’s another design of the Millenium Falcon, so he grabs two of those, as well as two that have the _Empire Strikes Back_ poster on them. “This one’s the best.”

“So you’ve said.” Gamora laughs softly. “Is our entire Earth wardrobe going to consist of Star Wars t-shirts?” 

“As awesome as that would be,” he says, “I guess we can have a little variety. Maybe there’s some Ninja Turtle stuff around here. We can really sell your costume.”

She rolls her eyes and shoves him playfully. “Peter.” 

“Oh!” he exclaims, feigning a sudden stroke of brilliance. “I know! Maybe _I_ could get a Ninja Turtle costume. Then we could match!”

“ _Peter_ ,” she groans, taking a step closer, which places her very definitely in his personal space. He recognizes that look, that posture--she's getting ready to do something, probably either kiss him or go for _that_ ticklish spot on his side. He never knows which it's going to be. Sometimes it's even both. 

He moves instinctively, without thinking about where they are, or when they are--all the things that have happened over the past couple of weeks, everything she's just told him about how her experience was much longer. He reaches out, lightning quick and pokes _her_ in the side, then immediately recoils in horror as he realizes what he's done. 

For her part, Gamora just laughs, so openly that for a moment he doesn't even register that he's managed to do something good. 

Then a slow, amazed smile spreads over his face and he does it again, or he tries to. This time, she catches his wrist before he can make contact, holding onto it and beginning her own assault, mercilessly tickling his side. 

“Gamora!” he practically squeals, letting loose a peal of helpless laughter. She’s absolutely _grinning_ and he doesn’t think he’s ever been so happy to be tickled in his life.

He takes a couple uncoordinated steps back, half-heartedly trying to squirm away from her fingers, and bumps into the rack of clothes behind him, knocking a few shirts down onto his head. 

“You’ve blinded me!” he says, turning his head dramatically as if confused as to why he suddenly can’t see.

“Oh, no,” she says playfully, releasing his wrist. “The great Star-Lord is incapacitated.” 

“That’s what he _wants_ you to think!” He whips the shirt off his head, smiling triumphantly. “Not even Gamora-Tickle-Fingers can keep _Shirt_ -Lord down!” 

This time her familiar competitive streak ignites immediately. She grabs the shirt out of his hands and backs him up until he's basically stuck, because if he moves any further, he's either going to fall over or get impaled by a clothes rack. 

Gamora's expression is positively wicked as she throws the shirts to the ground and starts tickling him again--ribs, side, even up under his arms where she _knows_ he’s particularly vulnerable. 

By the time he throws his hands up in surrender, his lungs are burning and tears are streaming down his face, only mostly from laughter. “Okay, okay, you win!”

She stops for a moment, then steps back in, kissing him in a rush. It's over practically before he's registered it, but it makes his heart soar all the same. 

“Ew,” says a voice a few feet away to his right. Peter spins around and sees a boy who can't be much older than he was the last time he was in a store like this. The kid looks positively disgusted. “You two wanna get a room?”

Gamora looks embarrassed, but Peter just shakes his head. “One day you’ll understand, kid.” 

The boy makes a face. “Ick. I don’t think so. Kissing is gross.” 

Peter shrugs. “More for me.” He leans in as if to kiss Gamora, who’s still blushing. He doesn’t think she’d actually be receptive to knowingly kissing in front of the kid, but luckily Peter’s gamble pays off and the kid makes another disgusted noise and runs off before he even gets close. 

“Peter,” she hisses, looking around; there’s no one else in sight. 

“Relax, he’s gone.” 

“Still. Let’s not traumatize the child.” 

“Rain check?” he asks hopefully, still on a high from the kiss, from the delightful normalcy of this. 

She smirks, a particularly gorgeous look when there’s a dark green tinge to her cheeks. “Perhaps.” 

“I’ll take that as a yes,” says Peter, though of course he has no intention of pushing her if she _doesn’t_ want to follow through with that later. He knows all too well that Gamora needs to feel absolutely safe and secure before she can even consider physical intimacy.

“We still don’t have any clothes besides Star Wars shirts,” she points out, gesturing to their cart before stooping quickly to retrieve the items they knocked down. 

“Right!” says Peter, still feeling buoyant with the aftermath of laughter. Putting on his best Nature Documentary Narrator Voice, he sweeps his arm across the surrounding area. “Well, you see, this is the Men’s department, although I’ve heard the world won’t end if women also wear these clothes.” He takes a few steps to the nearest display and holds up a pair of pants. “Here we have a wild pair of jeans. They’re very good for...well, pretty much anything.”

Gamora rolls her eyes. “I know what jeans are, Peter.” (And of course he knows this, because they’re one of the most ubiquitous clothing items in the galaxy.)

He decides to continue with the charade, grabbing another item he’s sure she’s familiar with. “This is a muscle tank. Incredibly good looking guys like me wear them in the gym.”

She rests a hand on her hip. “Next are you going to show me what underwear is?” she deadpans.

“Nah,” he says dismissively. “I know you know what men’s underwear looks like.” He gestures smugly to himself. 

“Yes, Peter,” Gamora says dryly. “I have seen your underwear. All over the floor.”

He sputters, holding his hands up in mock surrender. “Are you suggesting I’m anything but the epitome of cleanliness?”

“I’m more than suggesting.”

Peter sticks his nose up in the air and says in his best snooty voice, “So rude. I cannot believe the accusations being hurled upon me.”

She sighs. “Are you going to actually purchase any of this stuff?”

“Not until you apologize for slandering me.”

She gives him her best unamused glare, but he can’t help but grin when he sees the playfulness shining in her eyes. “Fine. I am so sorry for pointing out that you leave clothing on the floor.”

“I suppose that will do,” he says loftily, grabbing a pair of dark jeans and looking at the tag. But of course, Earth doesn’t use the Galactic Standard measuring system, and he has no memory of how clothing sizes work here, so he doesn’t know what to get. 

He tosses a bunch of different sizes in the cart. “We’ll have to try stuff on.”

Peter surveys what’s in the cart, then decides it’s enough for him, at least for now. He starts to steer them toward the women’s department for Gamora to make her choices, but quickly finds his way blocked by...something he’s pretty sure isn’t possible.

He sucks in a breath, looking incredulously back and forth between the shopping cart full of what looks like rolls of tape and the man pushing it who looks...decidedly like a Krylorian. Here, on Earth. Shopping at Wal-Mart. 

“Um,” says Peter, painfully aware that he’s staring and yet unable to stop, wondering for a moment whether he’s somehow started to actually hallucinate.

“Hey!” the man says enthusiastically, looking back and forth between him and Gamora. “Hey, you’re Zehobereian, right? Don’t see many of you around here!” He pauses, then gasps, momentarily clapping a hand over his mouth. “Wait! You’re the Guardian girl, right? Oh man, I’ve always wanted to meet you!”

Gamora looks more perplexed than distressed by this sudden outpouring of enthusiasm, but Peter feels a swell of protectiveness nonetheless. He steps in front of her, extending his hand toward the other man. “Hi, I’m the Guardian guy and you’re meeting me too, isn’t _that_ exciting? You can call me Star-Lord.”

The stranger blinks, but takes his hand anyway. “Who?” 

Peter sighs and glances around to make sure no one else is around before activating his mask for a second, waiting for recognition to dawn on the man’s face before turning it off again. 

“Oh, okay, yeah,” the guy says. “Nice to meet you. I’m Zax.” He looks behind him at Gamora. “You are super awesome. Such a badass.” 

“Um, thank you,” Gamora says. Peter glances back to check on her, and she’s still mostly confused, but there’s a pleased little smile on her lips and he can’t even be irritated Zax’s disinterest in him. 

“What are you doing here?” she asks curiously. 

“Stocking up.” Zax indicates his cart full of tape. “I’m about to fly back to Krylor, and for some reason Earth is the only place you can get decent duct tape.”

“I think she meant why are you on _Earth_ ,” Peter says. 

“Oh, I live here,” he says as if surprised by the question. “Well, for half the year. My husband is from here. We spend the other half of the year on my home planet.”

Gamora's eyes widen. “You just--live here? On Earth?”

Zax laughs. “Yeah, totally! It's nice. And, I mean, have you had a taco yet? Man, I'd live here just for the tacos.” He gets a dreamy look in his eyes. 

“And you don't wear a disguise?” Gamora presses, gesturing to the man’s clearly alien appearance, despite the fact that he's wearing jeans and a striped polo shirt.

He shakes his head. “Nah. Mostly people just think I'm _really_ sunburned. Some of ‘em call me a tourist, which, they have no idea how right they are! Did you know Terrans can get burned by their own planet's sun?”

Gamora turns to Peter with a questioning look and he grimaces. “Yeah, um, not just this sun. You shoulda seen me the last time I went to the beach on Xandar.”

“Oh, yes,” she says, eyes wide as she remembers. She looks back at Zax. “His skin started to _peel away_. I was afraid it was diseased.” 

“Hey--”

“I know!” Zax says vehemently. “It’s ridiculous. How do they not have protection against that?”

Gamora shakes her head, also lamenting this. “Has your husband ever gotten ‘a cold?’”

“ _Yes_. All the time. It’s like he’s suddenly incapacitated by his own sinuses.”

“Terrans are very fragile.” 

“Hey!” Peter interjects, this time continuing before he can be interrupted. “I’m totally strong.”

“Oh, yeah, of course,” Zax says condescendingly. Gamora pats Peter’s arm. 

He sighs, deciding to veer the subject away before they start comparing again. “I had no idea aliens could just _live_ here.” 

Zax shrugs. “I’ve only met a couple others. It was more difficult at first, because not everyone buys the sunburnt thing. But now at least most Terrans realize they’re not the only life forms in the galaxy.”

Gamora wrinkles her nose. “Do they try to take pictures with you?”

“Sometimes!” Zax says brightly, apparently unperturbed by this. “I've gone viral half a dozen times and counting!”

Peter frowns, confused. “You've--what?”

“Oh, just a little social media lingo,” says Zax, pulling out his phone, which is remarkably like the ones Stark has provided. “Been a meme a couple times too.” He looks at something on the screen of his phone, and his eyes widen. “Crap, gotta go! Husband's waiting on me! So great to meet you, though.”

“Um,” says Peter, as Zax is already headed quickly toward the checkout counters. “Likewise!”

“Hey!” Zax calls over his shoulder, aiming his attention toward Gamora. “Make sure you get to try the tacos!”

* * *

The rest of their Wal-Mart trip is fairly uneventful in comparison to _that_. 

Gamora is noticeably more relaxed, no longer looking around corners or trying to hide her face with her hair. He doesn’t know if it’s the fact that no one but Zax has noticed or cared that she’s an alien or because they met someone else who isn’t from here, but Peter’s grateful either way. 

They do see plenty of people who make questionable fashion choices--unless head-to-toe animal print bodysuits are a style here now. Besides that, the only thing of note that happens between meeting Zax and arriving back at their hotel is the man standing in front of his car in the parking lot, loudly cursing a ticket left on his windshield.

Knight Rider had been very pleased with himself. 

Back at the hotel, they breach the door with only three swipes of the key and Peter promptly drops the shopping bags he’s carrying onto the floor. 

“We have to find a way to pay Stark back for all this,” Gamora says, depositing hers much more carefully onto the small table. 

“Think he needs anything stolen?” asks Peter, flopping down onto the bed, which makes a loud squeaky noise under him, but fortunately doesn't collapse. 

She rolls her eyes. “Sure, that's what we do.”

Peter feigns innocence. “It's not? My entire life is a lie.”

Gamora shakes her head and takes off her jacket, carefully hanging it on the only rusty-looking hanger in the room's tiny closet. “I have a question for you.”

Peter arches an eyebrow, wondering where this is going, if it's about to be another bombshell or something else. “Yeah?”

She hesitates for a moment, then removes her sword, followed by her belt, laying both gently on the dresser. “What is a taco?”

“Oh!” Peter sits back up excitedly. “It's this type of food that's like...spicy meat and cheese inside of a casing that's like a chip! It's delicious. We’ll totally have to get some while we're on Earth. I dunno why the rest of the galaxy hasn't discovered them yet.”

She nods, apparently satisfied. “I suppose Earth is beginning to grow more open to other races.”

Peter nods, yawns, stretches his arms above his head, then sniffs his armpits with a bit of a frown. 

Gamora, who has a much stronger sense of smell than he does and is now standing right next to the bed, wrinkles her nose. He puts his arms down. 

“Sorry. I haven’t really showered in...a while.” In a couple of days, actually. The last time was immediately after he’d used the Stone, and she’d appeared cold and shivering, not even able to speak, and he carried her into the shower. She couldn’t even stand on her own… 

Not like he’d gotten a lot of actual washing done then. 

He shakes himself out of the memory with effort to find her looking at him, contemplative. He wonders if she’s considering attacking him with deodorant. 

Instead, she whips off her vest in the blink of an eye, leaving her in just her white undershirt. “C’mon.” She holds out a hand to him. “We should probably change your bandages, anyway.”

“Oh,” he says, thrown. “Uh, okay.” He takes her hand but tries to do most of the work getting himself out of bed, still paranoid about making her exert herself too much. She yanks him up without much effort, though, and then she’s looking at him expectantly. 

Having managed to stand, Peter feels momentarily lost, unsure of how this is supposed to go or what she wants. Gamora continues undressing with casual efficiency, removing her boots, then her shirt, and finally her pants. When she's gotten down to her underwear she turns to face him again, looking surprised. 

“Are you...planning to get into the shower with your clothes on?” she asks, her expression equal parts mild amusement and concern. “Or did you want to be alone?”

“No!” Peter says immediately, practically a single syllable of desperation. He pulls his shirt off immediately, only getting it stuck for a second this time. “No, no, I--I don't know what's wrong with me. Sorry.”

“Are you sure?” she asks, still concerned. “We don’t have to--”

“No, I want to,” he says quickly. “I just…” He hesitates

There should be no reason for him to be apprehensive about this. They’ve showered together hundreds of times. But, he realizes suddenly, this will be only the second time he’s been naked in front of her since...since everything. And that first time hardly counts; it was only for a few seconds, right after that last shower. 

While he’s been naked in front of her in a non-sexual context plenty of times before, something about doing it now feels distinctly vulnerable. Admitting it…even more so.

“I wonder if the shower even works,” he says, deflecting. 

She looks at him for a second, probably debating whether to let him get away with this, before she sighs. “I’ll go check. You get undressed.”

He obeys, because it’s not like he _doesn’t_ want to shower with her. It’s one of his favorite things to do, whether it leads anywhere or not. 

Peter undresses quickly, wrinkling his nose again as he realizes just how sweaty his shirt’s gotten during the hike. Definitely won't be wearing that again without visiting some sort of a laundry facility. Which, it occurs to him, will probably be necessary regardless. Unless of course he just keeps buying more Star Wars shirts. 

For the moment, he wads the shirt up into a tight ball and throws it into the furthest corner of the room. His pants aren't as offensive, so they get to rest on the bed, but his boxers go the way of the shirt. 

Now fully undressed, he finds himself shivering a bit despite the fact that the room is still ridiculously stuffy and a bit humid. He crosses his arms over his chest but then catches sight of himself in the mirror above the sad excuse for a dresser. 

The shadows under his eyes are so deep that he actually rubs at them for a moment, practically expecting some sort of ink to come off his skin, though of course it doesn't. He's lost weight, too, in the past few days. Maybe he won't be needing that Bowflex after all. 

“Peter!” Gamora calls from the bathroom. “Where are you? The shower appears to be excellent.”

“Coming!” he says, shaking himself out of it. He makes a stop at their bag, first, grabbing her various toiletries. Even if this place does provide shampoo and stuff, she’s gonna want her own. 

“You mean something in this room actually works?” he asks as he walks in. 

She’s still outside the shower, but she’s got the curtain drawn back a bit so she can feel the water with her hand. Sometime during his undressing and self-reflection, she’s lost her underwear, facing away from him completely naked. 

Now that she’s not in danger of freezing back to death, he can’t help but appreciate the view. 

“Apparently,” she says, sounding pleased. Gamora loves a good shower. She smiles when she turns around and sees what he’s carrying. “Thank you.” 

“Any time.” 

She grabs half of the stuff from him and pulls the curtain back enough for them both to step in. 

He’s pleasantly surprised by this shower, which _does_ appear to work well. It’s a little small, but it’s clean, and the water is warm and comes down in a steady spray. There’s even a shelf for them to store the various bottles he’s brought in. 

“I guess this place can do _something_ right.” He waves gallantly at the shower. “After you, m’lady.”

Gamora shakes her head, but she steps in, face toward the spray, exhaling deeply and happily as the water hits her. Peter can't keep the smile off his face as he steps in behind her, filled with affection for her, for the simple familiarity of this routine, even in a completely different setting. 

She's pretty much hogging the water, which she ends up doing anytime they're anywhere that doesn't have uniform spray from the ceiling. Still, he's in no rush, happy to just watch, enjoying her enjoying it. The awkwardness of a few minutes ago is gone, melted away in the warmth and the light. 

Peter leans forward when she pulls her hair over one shoulder, pressing a kiss to the top of her shoulder. 

She shivers, craning her neck to look at him without taking her body out of the spray. “We should trim your beard when we get out. It's starting to look a little lumberjoe.”

“Jack,” says Peter, delighted as always at her attempts to pick up his figures of speech. “Lumber _jack_.”

She furrows her brow, looking equal parts earnest and confused. “But how do we know his name was Jack?”

“How do _you_ know his name was Joe?” He laughs. 

“I don’t,” she says simply. “I am asking you. It’s _your_ strange saying.”

“It’s not _mine_ ,” he says. “And I don’t know. It’s a job, not one single person. It’s a name for people who cut down trees. I guess a guy named Jack was the first person to do it.”

She shrugs. “I suppose I will allow that.” 

“Why, thank you,” he says affectionately. “Are you gonna _allow_ anyone else to get some water?” He gestures to his relatively dry body. “Or do you just wanna see how much of it you can soak up?”

She gives him a considering look over her shoulder. “Just _anyone_? No. But I suppose _you_ can have some.” 

“So generous.”

She turns around then, stepping aside so they can switch places. He looks at her when she turns, because he can’t _not_ take her in despite having already seen her naked almost every day for four years. 

He steps under the water and frowns when his gaze reaches her abdomen. For a second he thinks he’s just not seeing right, so he blinks water off his lashes and rubs at them for good measure. 

Nope. Her abdomen is distinctly, solid green. 

He becomes aware a moment later that he’s staring, and forces himself to look away, sticking his face fully into the spray so that he’ll have an excuse to close his eyes and rake his hands over them. While he does that, he wracks his brain, trying to think of another instance when she’s looked this way. He’s used to seeing a flush of silver on her abdomen, knows that it’s her body’s reflection of the fact that she wants him, that she loves him, that they are everything to one another. It varies in intensity, true, but he’s pretty sure it’s always been there, from the moment she’d first confessed her feelings for him. 

Then again, he’s pretty sure this is the longest they’ve ever gone with so little intimacy and that’s largely his fault. He’s been keeping her at a distance, he knows, because he’s been afraid of opening up the metaphorical floodgates. He’s been afraid that would remind him of everything he’s lost, everything _they’ve_ lost, afraid of what confronting that would mean. He still is, if he’s honest. But this is something he can fix, he thinks. At least, he’s pretty sure he knows how.

“Can I wash your hair?” he asks, finally turning back to face her again.

“Yes, please,” she says softly. She hands him her shampoo bottle and turns around so her back is to him again, which is probably a good thing; he probably wouldn’t be able to resist staring at her abdomen otherwise. 

He pours some shampoo into his unbandaged palm and loses himself as much as possible in the familiar, comforting scent and ritual. He can’t see her face but he can picture it, knows she’s probably closing her eyes, perhaps losing herself in this too. 

Hair was…is, he supposes...important in Gamora’s culture. She’s told him that the Zehoberei have mini-braids of varying length, beads of different colors to signify different things, though she hardly remembers what any of them are anymore. But she knows that the care of one’s hair is important and private, only to be shared with family as a child, and lovers as an adult. 

She’d told him all this at the same time she’d told him about the silver; that first night, not long after Yondu’s funeral, what feels like a lifetime ago. She’d been so confident about some things, yet so timid about others. Like sharing the silver with him, telling him what it means. How she’s never gotten it for anyone but him. How it indicates not only lust but love, devotion, commitment; _what you feel for a potential life partner_ , were her words. 

Working his hands through her hair, he realizes that it’s all entirely loose right now, the mini braid he knows she keeps constantly maintained conspicuously absent. He has a sudden flash of the last time he was in the shower with her like this, on the Quadrant. That day there most definitely _had_ been shower sex, and it had been excellent. That was why she didn’t redo the mini braid as soon as she’d taken it out. That was why she was distracted. Then they’d gotten a distress call in the vicinity of Earth and...well, he doesn’t want to relive the rest yet again. 

Still, it’s strange how he’s practically managed to erase the way this all started from his memory. It’s like crashing a ship, in a way--the blur of blank space that precedes the period of free-fall. He’s still not sure if either of them have their feet back on the ground.

“We should redo your braid,” he says finally, realizing that he’s lost track of how long they’ve been standing here in silence, not that that’s so unusual. Still, he feels the need to say something now, to ground her, to make sure she’s present with him. 

Gamora shrugs, gives him a sad smile over her shoulder. “We can, but I don’t have any ornaments along. I left them all on the Quadrant.”

“That’s okay,” he says, trying to cheer her up. “We can still braid it. And we’ll get you some more ornaments here!” 

“I would like that,” she says softly. She turns her head back around and he uses the opportunity to rinse the shampoo from her hair, running his fingers through with even more care than usual. 

He’s about to ask her to pass him the conditioner when she surprises him by turning around--still no silver, he notes in the split second he has to observe--and catching him in a tight hug, her body pressed against his, cheek to chest. 

“Oh,” he breathes, surprised, touched. He wraps his arms around her immediately, pulling her in as close as he possibly can. “What’s this for?”

“Just--thank you.” He can hardly hear her over the sound of the water hitting his back and the tile of the floor. 

“You know I’ll wash your hair any time, any place,” he says, trying to sound less overwhelmed by emotion than he feels. 

Gamora doesn’t say anything, though he gets the sense that she could; that she wants to; that there’s something she’s very deliberately not telling him. 

He presses a kiss to the top of her head and decides not to push her, despite the alarm bells in his head that refuse to stop going off. He ignores them as best as he can. She’s here with him, letting him hold her. Holding _him_. He just needs to do this more: be more intimate, more open, more himself. Then her silver will come back. He’s sure of it.


	10. Chapter 10

Peter grunts with effort as he leans over the foot of the bed, sprawled out on his stomach, reaching for one of the bags of snacks from Wal-Mart. His arm isn't _quite_ long enough, which means his shoulder is straining rather unpleasantly by the time he manages to hook his fingers through the plastic handle. 

“Ha!” he exclaims triumphantly as he scoops it onto the mattress and sits back against the headboard. True, it probably would have been easier to just walk over there, but this is far more satisfying. 

Gamora glances up from where she's stretching on the floor, looking every bit the dancer she still claims not to be. “Congratulations,” she deadpans. 

“Thank you!” Peter says brightly. 

He digs out a bag of chips and looks at it, suddenly realizing he's overlooked the fact that it has a picture of Captain America under the bright Doritos logo.

“Huh,” he says a bit sadly. “That must be a bummer for marketing.”

Gamora looks up again and takes it in. “Perhaps it's intended as a memorial?”

“That would’ve been pretty quick work,” he says. His throat tightens when he thinks about Cap--Steve’s death, how Natasha and Tony and the others lost a friend, how close he came to being in the same position, losing all his friends and the love of his life and—

“Are you okay?” 

Peter shakes his head, realizing he’s just been staring at the bag for who knows how long. “Yep. Just hungry.” He opens the bag, holding it so he’s looking at the back of it instead of the front. 

“You are going to eat chips for breakfast?” she asks, though she doesn’t sound surprised. 

“Sure!” he says, mouth full of them. She makes a face. “It’s road trip food. You can eat whatever you want on a road trip.” 

“We are not actually _on_ the road right now, though.” 

She flattens out onto her stomach on the floor, then casually pushes herself up into a handstand. Her body is ramrod straight, like there's a string or something pulling her toes toward the ceiling. After holding that for a moment, she bends one leg backwards until her toe is touching the ground behind her head. 

“Peter?” she prompts, her body still being distractingly bendy. 

“Sure we’re on the road,” says Peter, clearing his throat. “We're at a shitty motel in a tiny town far away from home. That's totally on the road!”

Gamora sighs, putting both feet on the ground and straightening up to stand normally. “All right. But I want to see more of Earth than just this motel.”

“Okay,” Peter agrees. He stuffs his mouth full of chips, then grabs one of the phones to search while he chews. “We could, um...hike more. Or there's a theater--oh, except looks like they're on a break for summer. We could take a tour where they look for ghosts?” He considers that, instantly realizes what a bad idea it is and shakes his head. “Okay, so not a lot else to do in Mill Hall.”

“Anything that’s _not_ in Mill Hall?” she asks. 

“Sure!” he says, though he’s kind of drawing a blank on suggestions. “Um… Like what?” 

She shrugs. “I have no idea what’s around here, Peter.” 

“Well… I’ve told you a lot about Earth. Is there anything I’ve talked about that you really wanted to see or do? Anything at all, doesn’t matter where.” 

“You’ve told me about a lot of Earth movies,” she says with a smirk. 

“Earth movies are the best,” he says simply.

“So you’ve said… Oh!” She looks cautiously excited, like she’s unsure of the thought she just had.

“What?” he says encouragingly, pausing in his mission to stuff as many Doritos as he can into his mouth. 

“Could we see the town Kevin Bacon saved?” She flushes a second later, apparently feeling sheepish about the suggestion. “Or we could just--watch the movie, I suppose?”

“Oh!” Peter echoes her earlier excitement. It’s occurred to him, of course, that being on Earth means he can rewatch any movie he wants, plus some new ones, too. But it hasn’t occurred to him that as an adult armed with Stark’s tech and wealth, visiting the places _in_ his favorite movies is now completely within his means. “That’s an awesome idea!”

“Is it nearby?” she asks curiously. Apparently finished with her stretching, she comes over to sit on the edge of the bed.

“I don’t know,” Peter admits. It’s rapidly occurring to him how little he remembers about where things actually are on Earth. Or, rather, how little he knew to begin with. Licking Doritos dust from his lips, he turns his attention back to the phone, searching. 

It takes him a moment to even find the town--at first his brain keeps coming up with _Bowie_ , but he knows that isn’t right. Once he does manage to remember Bo _mont_ it takes him another few tries to spell it correctly. 

Pulling up the information, he can’t quite help the way his face falls a bit. “Oh. It looks like it’s not a real place.”

Gamora frowns. “I thought you said Kevin Bacon was a great hero of your people?”

“He is,” he says, looking at the phone with consternation. He’s positive his mother told him that _Footloose_ really happened… Though he supposes he could be remembering wrong. Thirty years could distort a lot of memories. 

He scrolls down farther on the phone, not quite used to the clunky technology, then breathes a sigh of relief. “Oh, here we go. _The film is based on actual events that took place in Elmore City!_ So it is real. They just didn’t use the real name.” 

“Why not?” she asks, looking over his shoulder. 

“The real town was probably too ashamed of how lame it was before Kevin Bacon saved it.” He searches for Elmore City in the phone’s nav feature. “It’s in Oklahoma.”

“Is _that_ near?” 

“Not really. Twenty hours.” He neglects to mention that it borders Missouri, afraid of what direction the discussion might turn in if she knew that. “But we can stop and do other stuff we pass on the way!”

She shrugs one shoulder, eyes still on the phone. “Is Elmore City...like New York City?” 

“No, no,” he says quickly, then realizes he doesn’t actually know. He goes back to the search feature. “...Oh, no. Psh. It’s got even fewer people than Mill Hall.”

Gamora nods, looking relieved. “So it should be relatively simple to--blend in.” She pauses again, though. “Will we need to dance?”

“Only if we want to!” he says brightly. In truth he still doesn't have any idea what to expect in the year 2018. Has dancing changed? Surely not. He can't imagine anything better than the moves his mother taught him, though of course he's aware of the variations in dancing on other planets. Still, they've got nothing on Earth. 

“All right,” says Gamora, clearly still processing that from the look on her face. Then she brightens again. “Will we meet Kevin Bacon? Does he live there?”

“Oh, maybe!” he says excitedly, looking that up too. He deflates pretty quickly. “No. He must’ve moved. He lives in Los Angeles. That’s a big city all the way across the country.”

Her eyes go wide as soon as he says ‘city.’

“So let’s stick with smaller stuff, yeah?” he says, and she nods, untensing. “Maybe it’s a good thing he doesn’t live there, anyway.”

“Why is that?”

“Mantis would never forgive us if we met Kevin Bacon without her.”

* * *

“We are approaching Pittsburgh,” Knight Rider informs them once they’ve been on the road for a few hours. 

“What’s that?” Peter asks, munching on a cookie. 

“A city--”

“Ehhhhh!” he says, imitating the sound of a game show buzzer. “No thanks.”

He swears the car actually _sighs_. “You instructed me to inform you when we were approaching _something to do_. Pittsburgh is a historical city with--”

“No cities,” he says firmly. “Nothing with that many people.” 

“Do you have a particular population density you’d like me to avoid?” Knight Rider drawls.

“Use your best judgment.” Peter grins cheekily. He wonders if the AI can sense that. 

“We are approaching Pittsburgh,” Knight Rider repeats immediately. “A historical city with many cultural attractions.”

“Dude!” Peter rolls his eyes. “What did I just say?”

“I believe your precise words were ‘use your best judgment,’ Mr. Star-Lord,” he says smugly. 

“So…” Peter trails off expectantly. 

“So I did precisely that,” says Knight Rider. “In my judgment, Pittsburgh is a far better choice than your current destination.”

“Hey, don't knock Kevin Bacon!”

“Are you sure you wouldn't prefer for me to provide a list of the best tourist destinations in the country?” asks Knight Rider, sounding more than a little smug again. 

“I would _prefer_ ,” says Peter, “for you to listen to me.” He sighs and slouches back in his seat, scratching at his bandaged palm. Today it's unbearably itchy, which he sure hopes is a sign of healing. 

“Leave that alone,” Gamora says, speaking up for the first time in several minutes. 

“It itches,” he whines. 

“You don’t want to open the wound again.” It’s the concern in her voice that gets him to pull his hand away, though he pouts. 

“And leave Knight Rider alone, too.” 

“ _Thank you_ ,” the car says at the same time Peter sputters indignantly. 

“He’s the one who keeps trying to take us to cities!” 

“You requested—“ 

“We are requesting no large cities, please,” Gamora says, sounding tired. “Or major tourist attractions. We don’t want large crowds.” 

“Well, you certainly won’t find crowds out here,” Knight Rider says, sounding like he’s pouting a bit himself. 

He’s right, of course. Despite being on an interstate, there’s relatively few cars on the road with them, and very few exits or billboards advertising anything except the promise of Hell for various vague sins. 

When he turns back to Gamora, he finds her staring out the window, looking distant. Craning his neck, he leans in, manages to catch a glimpse of what's got her attention and, speak of the devil, it's another one of those damn billboards. This one says _HELL IS REAL_ in giant letters. 

Instinctively he reaches out, almost touches her shoulder, then thinks better of it. “Gamora?”

She shakes herself visibly. “I'm fine.”

“Okay,” he says gently. “But...you're thinking about something. Or remembering?”

“Do you know where you were?” she asks after a moment, her tone still tentative. “After Thanos--When he got what he wanted?”

Peter swallows, feeling a mix of apprehension and guilt, because he does have an answer and he knows it's nothing like hers. For a moment he considers lying, but then decides he owes her better than that. 

“I don't think I was anywhere,” he says finally. “I was just--gone. Like I never existed. Like being asleep but much, much deeper.” It had been a relief, if he's honest. 

She closes her eyes and nods, almost as if _she’s_ relieved. Which she probably is, actually; he’d be _so_ relieved if all she felt in the soul realm was nothing, if she didn’t have to suffer the way she did. 

He waits for her to continue, but after several minutes of silence, she still looks far away, gazing out the window unseeing. 

“Why?” he asks hesitantly. 

She blinks, doesn’t look back at him. “Nothing—no reason, just… I thought so.” 

“How could you tell?” he asks quietly, heart pounding as it does whenever they get close to this kind of conversation; he always half wants to know, half doesn’t want to find out any more than he already knows. 

She shakes her head. “I couldn’t. I couldn’t see you or—anything…” She pauses for another long moment, but he doesn’t prompt her this time, sensing that she’s on the cusp of saying more. 

They’ve passed three more hellfire billboards by the time she finally continues. “Most of the time.” 

It takes him a moment to respond, having lost himself in thought. He's been picturing her in the soul realm and simultaneously trying not to. Ironically all his stupid brain wants to come up with is the type of apparitions he remembers from Ghostbusters, except colored orange instead of green. He can't decide whether to laugh hysterically or cry at the image of her sliming Thanos. 

“Most of the time?” he echoes finally, aware that it probably sounds weird after such a long pause. He hopes she doesn't take it as a sign to shut down this line of thinking yet again. He does want to hear, if only because he knows it's what she needs most. 

“I told you I--couldn’t make people,” she says sadly. “But I could see flashes of them sometimes, in the living realm, I guess. Sometimes when I focused on them, and sometimes...maybe when they focused on me, I don't know. But...for the longest time, it was only Rocket and Nebula that I could see. Well, and once Kraglin, too.”

“You could see what they...we...were doing? Like a vision?” 

She shakes her head. “No… like shadows. Like the things I made. But there for only a second. I could just make out your faces before —“ 

He’s surprised his heart even functions anymore, with how many times it’s broken for her in the past few days. Picturing her, seeing them — seeing _him_ — but not being able to communicate or be seen herself or even just look at them for longer than a second… 

He bites his cheek to keep from tearing up. “I thought about you every second of every day after I came back.” 

She smiles, but it’s wobbly. “I did see you a lot, but…I guess with time distorted. Or just—not existent. It seemed like a long time between incidents when I’d see you but...it got more frequent.” 

“...Until?” he prompts, sensing a ‘but.’ 

“Until you fought Thanos,” she whispers, so quickly the words practically blend into one, as if it’s the only way she can make herself say them. 

Peter reaches out and very carefully takes her hand in both of his, pulling it to his lips and kissing her knuckles tenderly. She inhales a shaky breath, swallowing visibly for what feels like the dozenth time in the short while she's been back. 

“It was only a couple of days,” he says softly. “Between the time that Stark brought me back and when we--when the fight happened.”

Gamora shakes her head. “It felt like a lifetime. You know--for all of the years I lived under Thanos? For as much as I hated every aspect of my life then? This was infinitely worse.”

Her voice breaks on the last couple of words and suddenly Peter can't say anything, can't even breathe past the sob that keeps trying to bubble up in his throat. No wonder this feels so much like starting over, like starting from even more of a beginning than when they'd first met. 

Knight Rider makes a sound that approximates clearing his non-existent throat. “That sounds very difficult indeed.”

It shouldn’t be funny; it’s _not_ funny. It’s kind and sincere, probably the most so Knight Rider has ever sounded, at least when talking to them. It speaks to the magnitude of Gamora’s experience, that it moved him to respond in such a manner.

But suddenly the absurdity of a talking car expressing sympathy while they’re driving along an interstate on Earth, both on the verge of tears, hits him in the face and he bursts into a fit of watery giggles. Gamora stills for just a second before following suit, shaking her head like she can’t quit believe it. 

He leans across the console, resting his forehead against her temple while they both laugh. There’s water on his cheeks; at this point he doesn’t know who the tears belong to. 

“What’s so amusing?” Knight Rider asks, sounding completely baffled. 

“Nothing,” Peter says weakly, sniffling. “Really, nothing. I don’t know why I’m laughing.”

“Me either,” Gamora says, her next laugh mixed with a hiccup. She doesn't quite stop there, sniffling and making a few more soft sounds that aren't quite sobs. 

Peter shifts closer, so he's half in her seat, and runs a hand down her back, coaxing her closer as she leans in. After a moment she wraps both arms around his waist, and Peter presses a kiss to the top of her head. 

“You're back,” he promises, trying not to think of the fact that despite everything she's just confessed, she's _still_ told him it wasn't worth risking other lives. Sometimes it's hard not to get overwhelmed by the amount of goddamned _goodness_ in her heart, and how often she still fails to see it in herself. 

“I know,” she says finally, taking another shaky breath and clearly releasing him with effort. She wipes at her eyes as she sits back in her seat. 

There's a quiet whirring noise and then Knight Rider produces a tissue from a previously hidden slot in his dash. Gamora stares at it for a moment before taking it and blowing her nose. 

“Hey,” says Peter, getting a sudden idea. “How ‘bout a snack?”

He sees a tiny smile behind her tissue. “Is food going to be your answer to everything on this road trip?”

“It’s gonna answer _a lot_ ,” he says, twisting around to dig what he needs out of one of the several plastic bags they’ve reserved just for snacks. “I have the perfect road trip comfort food.” 

He pulls out a large plastic container that’s bigger than his head and stuffed to the brim with unnaturally orange spheres, as well as a white and orange can. “Get ready to have your mind blown.”

“My mind is prepared,” she says indulgently. Then her eyebrows shoot up when she actually sees what he’s holding. “What is that?”

“These,” he says grandly, holding up the container, “are cheese balls! They’re not the same ones I remember… Those ones definitely came in a tin. But these look the same!” 

She stares at them. “That is not cheese.”

“You think _that_ isn’t cheese?” he laughs. “Wait til you see this stuff.” He takes the top off the can to reveal the nozzle. “Cheese in a can!”

Gamora’s eyes widen, though the rest of her expression doesn’t change, still torn somewhere between curiosity and horror. “How does that work?”

“It’s like...cheese mixed with air. Compressed cheese! Cheese whiz, if you will. It’s basically magic.” Peter shakes the can, then squeezes a dollop into his palm to demonstrate. Only belatedly does he realize that might not have been the _best_ plan, since it is kind of messy.

She eyes the yellow blob in his hand. “That does not look like cheese.”

“And yet it is!” he says brightly. “That’s the magic of it! And now, for the only proper way to eat this snack!” 

It’s a little clumsy, since one hand is full of cheese whiz, but he shoves the container of cheese balls between his knees and manages to get the top off.

“You take a few of these,” says Peter, taking three. “And then--this part is _really_ important--you catch them in your mouth!” He tosses them up in the air, expertely catching them and crunching down. His mouth is still full when he speaks again. “Then you add the cheese whiz.” He hesitates for just a moment before licking it off his palm. Chewing and swallowing with effort, he grins at Gamora. “And that’s how you do it.”

“Please refrain from getting the processed cheese products on my upholstery,” Knight Rider interjects.

“You’re just jealous cause you can’t eat it,” Peter says, tossing another one into his mouth. He offers the jar to Gamora. 

“This sounds like a terrible idea,” she says, but delicately grabs one cheese ball between two fingers.

“It’s not gonna bite you,” he says, amused. She looks adorable, sniffing it like a picky cat deciding whether a fallen morsel of food is worth it to eat. He refrains from telling her this. 

“And catching it is essential to the experience?” she asks, sounding amused too. 

“It doesn’t work if you don’t. The challenge is the most important part.” 

She makes an interested noise at the word ‘challenge,’ a competitive gleam in her eye. “I do want to respect Terran customs.” 

Then she grabs a handful — four, he notices, one more than he’d done — and tosses them up two at a time, catching them gracefully. He holds the can out to her, watching with delight as she sprays some of the “cheese” directly into her mouth. 

“You’re a natural!” he cheers. “You sure you’ve never done this before?” 

She gives him a look, but the effect is ruined by the way her cheeks puff out with the food she’s still struggling to chew. When she finally does finish, she glances at the can in her hand. 

“How is it possible for something to be disgusting and wonderful at the same time?” 

Peter grins, thrilled by that description. “I guess cheese whiz and I have a lot in common.”

Gamora smirks back at him. “Well. That _is_ accurate.”

He blinks, unsure whether to be pleased or offended by the fact that she’s agreed with him. Instead he holds out the container of balls again, arching an eyebrow in silent question. She turns, looks at it for a moment, then wordlessly tips the cheese whiz can back up to her mouth, squeezing it until her mouth is full enough to make her cheeks puff out a little again. 

“Hey!” Peter laughs. “You can’t just--do that! You gotta eat both at the same time, that’s just the rules!”

She swallows and licks her lips before handing the can back to him. “And since when do we follow the rules?”

He pouts. “We’re supposed to follow _my_ rules, at least.”

“I imagine that goes very well for all involved,” Knight Rider says dryly.

Peter shakes his head sadly. When another few moments pass in silence, he tosses a few cheese balls into his own mouth, following by another shot of whiz.

“There was no food there, either,” says Gamora, because of course she’s waited until his mouth is full. “In the Soul Stone. There was no need for it.”

He wishes he hadn’t taken such a big bite, feels dirty eating given what she’s just told him, the taste of the cheese gone sour all of a sudden. 

He swallows painfully. “Was there...anything? Besides the shadows you made?” 

“Not really,” she says distantly, turning her gaze back out the window. They pass a couple more billboards; one for some place calling itself a “paradise oasis” and another for a fast food restaurant he has vague memories of, owned by someone named Wendy. The picture of the burger makes him wince, though it’s at least not another advertisement for Hell. 

“It was all orange,” she continues, after a few more billboards go past. “Like it was always just before sunset. There was no real landscape either, no features. Just flat...nothingness.” 

“Except when there were—shadows?” he asks, wanting her to keep talking. Her voice oscillates between flat and wobbly, as if she’s put a dam up to keep in her emotions but it’s full of cracks, the foundation unstable. 

“Yes,” says Gamora. “Like the realms were--not overlapping, exactly. Like the boundary between them was thin.” She takes a cheese ball from the jar and regards it for a moment, then obligingly tosses it into the air and catches it in her mouth.

Peter blinks, trying to take in the bizarre incongruity of this whole situation, how absolutely fitting it is of their lives, how he _still_ can’t decide whether he wants to laugh or cry. “When you saw us...what did you see?”

“Rocket was angry,” she says says after a moment, voice still quiet. “Smashing things one time. Throwing charges at the ground another. Mostly just--alone. Mantis was going through the weapons closet. You--” She pauses, swallows. “You were curled up in our bunk.” It’s clear that’s not the only thing she saw, but she isn’t volunteering the rest. She takes the can of cheese again and squeezes more into her mouth, like that might be able to stave off the memories.

Peter takes the can when she offers it and does the same, swallowing hard. Leaning over, he digs through the bag again, pulling out a bottle of water and twisting off the cap. He offers it to her first, waits for it to drink before taking it back and finishing it in a few long swallows.

“I saw Thanos too,” she says finally, looking away. “I didn’t want to, but I did.”

He crushes the empty bottle in his hand without really meaning to, not for the first time wishing he could kill Thanos all over again. Maybe keep him on ice just so he could go in and wail on him whenever he felt like it. 

“Like—like you saw the rest of us?” he asks. “As shadows?” 

She nods. “I was glad _those_ didn’t last long, at least--” She cuts herself off abruptly, pressing her lips together as if to keep something inside. 

He reaches over tentatively to rest his hand on her shoulder. She tenses but doesn’t shake him off. She doesn’t look at him either though, still focused on the window, on the billboards or, more likely, on the trees beyond the ads, the sky above them, the actual, real landscape. 

“ _Those_ ones?” he prompts gently. 

She’s quiet long enough for several more billboards for “the incredible utopia of America Village” to pass by. Then she turns to him, water gathered at the corners of her eyes. The way she’s looking at him reminds him so strikingly of the way she’d looked when she’d made him promise to kill her that his breath stops in his throat and he has to consciously remind his brain how inhaling works. 

“I saw it,” she whispers. “When you fought him.” 

It takes him a moment to process that, and then to realize that he isn’t understanding because there really is a lack of clarity in her statement, not just because his brain is refusing. He clears his throat roughly. “Which--which time?”

She turns to look at him again then, so much pain in her eyes that he bites back a curse. “ _Both_ times. Peter, I--” She breaks off for a moment, grabs another tissue from the dash and dabs angrily at her eyes. “I saw you on Titan. Peter, _why_? It was _suicide._ ”

This time his breath actually catches in his throat and he spends several terrifying seconds feeling as though he can’t get enough air. He tells himself that he isn’t going to have another meltdown, not when she’s talking about everything she’s been through, not when she needs him to focus. Instead he focuses on what to tell her, on finding the words to explain the moment that’s still largely a blur of pain and rage in his mind. “I wasn’t--There wasn’t a _why_ , okay? He killed you. He _killed_ you and I couldn’t--I just--I _had to._ Besides, it’s not like I cared if it was suicide. And didn’t you say it was a relief to you when I wasn’t alive anymore?”

She reaches out and touches his cheek, catching a couple of tears he hasn’t even realized have started to fall. “That doesn’t mean I ever wanted _him_ to kill you.”

He inhales shakily, covering her hand with his. “He did much worse than kill me when he hurt _you_.” 

“Peter.” She bites her lip, shakes her head, opens her mouth as if to speak but her voice seems to fail her. He reaches out to pull her closer, suddenly needing to hug her more than he needs to breathe, but the stupid console between them is in the way. 

Until it isn’t, silently moving backwards so that there’s nothing obstructing the path between their seats and he can pull Gamora as close as he wants. He makes a mental note to buy Knight Rider some premium gas or something later. 

She’s practically in his lap at this point; or maybe he’s in hers. He can’t even tell anymore. All he knows is that he’s finally holding her as close as he wants and he’s never letting go. 

“So...that’s how you know so much?” he asks after a moment, the questions he still has refusing to stay in his head. “You saw the fight?”

She nods against his shoulder. 

“Like shadows too?” 

“Sort of,” she says quietly. She’s clinging to the back of his shirt but she’s tense, refusing to relax no matter how much he tries to soothe her, his hand drawing large circles over her back. 

“Sort of?” He wants to hear the end of this, doesn’t want her to bring the walls back up again yet. But he also doesn’t want her to feel pressured to revisit anything she’s not prepared to. The last thing he wants is to cause her any more pain. 

She brings her own hand up along his back, fingers chasing and flattening wrinkles as she talks, using the texture of the fabric to keep herself grounded, probably. “That was part of it. That was how I _saw._ But I also...the Stone--spoke to me.”

“The Stone?” he repeats, feeling stupid. He knows what she’s just said, at least in words, but he’s having trouble picturing how it’s possible. Really, though, he’s having trouble picturing any of it.

“Yes,” she says, half a sigh, the warmth of her breath brushing his neck and paradoxically making him shiver. “It was--The Stone was me, as a child. She-- _I_ \--told me when Thanos was about to use the Stone again. Asked for my help.”

“I--what?” He’s trying not to sound like a broken record, but this baffles him even more. “The Stone...transformed into you?”

“No. Yes. Not really,” she says, which doesn’t help his confusion. She gets the words out with difficulty, and he hates himself a little for making her talk about this, but he’s also pretty sure she needs to. “I just _saw_ myself as a child. My soul, I suppose. She--it, _I_ , I don’t know--knew what was going on and that I could control it. So when Thanos tried to use it, I made it backfire.” 

“Yes,” Peter breathes, heart pausing its rhythm for a moment before taking up its beats in double time. “I knew it, Mora, I knew it.” 

Now it’s her turn to be confused. “Knew what?”

“I… We had all the other Stones,” he says, “but we couldn’t get that one. It’s special apparently. But we figured with five, we could overpower him.” 

She nods. “I know. I saw you, all of you, with them in the battle.”

“ _I saw you, too_ ,” he hisses, and he feels her still against him. “When you used the Stone. I saw--a shadow of you, I guess. Just for a second. But I _knew_ you were real.” 

“And that's--why you did what you did?” she asks, after a long moment of silence. “With the Stone, after the battle?”

Peter frowns, lost for a moment because he didn't have command of any of the Stones during the fight itself. Nobody had wanted to trust him with them, of course. Actually he knows there were some people--who he’s totally not going to name, he's _not_ \--who didn't want him there at all. But then the rest of her words sink in past the residual anger and he realizes what she means. 

“When I brought you back?”

She nods against his shoulder but she's still tense, maybe even more than when they started this whole terrible conversation. “You risked _everything_ , Peter.”

He shakes his head, swallowing. It takes him a moment to get the words out. “Well yeah. You _are_ everything.”

“Peter--” she starts to protest, but he cuts her off. 

“You _are_ ,” he insists. It’s a truth he knows with as much confidence as he’s ever known anything. “You are everything in the whole goddamn universe.” Before she can say anything else, he kisses the top of her head and asks, “What would you have done? If I was gone and you knew I was probably suffering and that there was a way you could save me?”

She’s quiet for a long moment, but he can feel her grip tighten on the back of his shirt. “That’s different.” 

“Why?”

“Because,” she says with a frustrated noise. “Because you’re…”

“Everything?” 

She huffs, adorably unwilling to admit that he’s right but unable to come up with an argument. He smiles a little, despite the tears still falling down his cheeks, and graciously says nothing else. Instead he just holds her, like he’s holding the whole universe in his arms. Because he is. 

“Um.” Knight Rider breaks the silence after a few minutes with an honest-to-goodness awkward noise. “Not to interrupt a--moment, but I am running short on fuel. We’re going to have to make a stop soon.” 

“Oh,” says Peter, feeling almost as though the car has shared something overly private with them. And it's not even like he's ever really been that big on privacy. “Okay, so find what you need and stop there.”

“Thank you for your permission, Mr. Star-Lord,” says Knight Rider, in a tone that's distinctly sarcastic. 

Peter allows himself to drift again after that, burying his face in Gamora's hair and letting his hand play through it too, idly twisting one of her curls around his finger. That's not something she'd let anyone else get away with, he knows, yet it seems to relax both of them when he does it. He's actually started to get drowsy by the time Knight Rider stops in front of what looks to be an incredibly small general store. 

Peter blinks. “What is going on?”

“I informed you we would be making a stop,” says Knight Rider. 

“Right, right.” He glances around, quickly realizing they're at America Village, the place responsible for all the weird billboards they've been seeing. “Okay, but the gas station is back there. And--do you even run on gas?” It's just now occurred to him that they haven't made any other fuel stops since leaving the Compound, and that there doesn't seem to be any sort of indicator for it on the dash. 

Knight Rider makes a noncommittal humming noise. “According to my database, humans find ice cream to be comforting in times of emotional distress. And this _is_ an extraordinary bargain.”

There’s a large sign that takes up about a quarter of the front wall of the store advertising “50 cent ice cream” with a picture of a vanilla ice cream cone that does look pretty good. 

He glances around the rest of the “village” through the car windows. Admittedly, his Earth vocabulary is probably limited and rusty, but he always thought of a village as a really tiny neighborhood with cottages and stuff, probably on a grassy hill somewhere. This place looks more like a set from a really poorly made old western movie, only instead of horses and saloons it has semi-trucks and a crappy hotel. There’s also what looks like a diner farther down the street and a “souvenir depot” attached to the general store. 

“ _This_ is the ‘paradise oasis’ from those billboards?” he asks incredulously. 

“I pictured it larger,” Gamora says. 

“Me, too.” That’s why he hadn’t suggested they check it out; he’d assumed from the signs that it would be a huge tourist spot packed with people. But besides them, the trucks parked in the lot across the street, and a couple people milling around near the hotel, it’s pretty empty. 

Sitting back, Peter takes in her face, carefully wiping away a couple of tears and tucking some loose curls back. He runs his fingers along her newly-woven mini braid, less visible than usual since it's unadorned. 

“Maybe they'll have some ornaments you could use in the souvenir depot,” he says, though he's really pretty sure that's not true. Still, he needs to do something to help her get that lost, sad look off her face. “Want a little American flag to put in your hair? Or maybe a little plastic cowboy!”

She shakes her head, but smiles faintly. “Peter…”

“Okay, okay.” He offers her a smile of his own and leans in to kiss the tip of her nose, which always makes her shiver. “Important question, then: Do you want to go get ice cream with me, or should I bring it out to you?”

Gamora loves ice cream (and just about anything sweet), he knows from experience, but she's never had it from Earth, which is clearly the best kind. Still, he doesn't want her to feel pressured about going out in public if she's not ready. 

“You think I'm letting you go in there alone?” she asks, surprising him. Stretching quickly, she crawls off his lap and out of the car, straightening her clothes and waiting for him to follow. 

“It's a truck stop,” says Peter, wondering what she's picturing. “I'm pretty sure I wouldn't need backup.” Then again, it does look kinda seedy. 

“Oh,” says Gamora, “that's not what I'm worried about. I just think you might need someone to make sure you don't buy every trinket in the souvenir depot.”

Peter snorts, surprised and delighted. “Fair.”

This time, she's the one who reaches for his hand, threading their fingers together before starting toward the building.


	11. Chapter 11

“Are you certain you need _all_ of those?” 

“How can you even ask that?”

Gamora gives him a look over her ice cream cone. “Because what use could you possibly have for that many pieces of paper?”

“They’re not _pieces of paper_ ,” he sighs. “They’re postcards. And you have some chocolate on your face.” He indicates a spot on the corner of her mouth, breath catching in his throat when she licks her lips a second later. Normally he’d lean in and kiss the chocolate off himself, but something in him hesitates. 

“Thanks,” she says, clearing her throat. “And what is the point of a _postcard_ , then?” 

“Well, you’re supposed to mail them places,” he says, watching her take a bite out of the wafer cone. He’d scarfed his ice cream down already, but Gamora’s always savored her food. “Like, you buy them when you’re traveling and send them to people back home.”

She looks even more confused. “How? Can Terrans teleport documents?” 

“No, they have mail people who carry them from one place to another.”

“That sounds extremely inefficient.”

He shrugs. “Probably. We never actually sent ours, anyway. My mom liked to collect them. She’d get one at every place we traveled to. We didn’t go a lot of places, but we had maybe like six or seven on our fridge.” 

“Where were those from?” asks Gamora, taking another delicate lick of her ice cream. She tends to use the tip of her tongue rather than the flat of it. It's yet another thing that makes her look like a cat, not that he's about to tell her. He can only imagine how that conversation would go…

“Peter?” she prompts. “Are you all right?”

He shakes himself, realizing that he's staring at her mouth again instead of listening to what she's saying. 

“Fine--what?” he blurts, then clears his throat. “I'm fine. What did you say?”

“I asked where the mail cards on your refrigerator were from?” she repeats, frowning ever so slightly. 

“Oh!” He blinks, realizing that he doesn't entirely know. He can picture them, he thinks, but he can't name or place all of the details. Except-- “Well, one was from Disney! Remember? I told you that me and my mom took a trip there!”

She nods earnestly. “The kingdom ruled by a giant mouse.”

“Yeah, Mickey!” he says. “We drove there, and we got one from every state we passed through. That was probably the whole collection, actually. Besides one from Illinois. We went there a few times, it was--is--really close to where we lived.”

“That is sweet,” she says softly. 

“Yeah.” He traces a finger over the top postcard in the stack he’s holding. It’s an old timey picture of, he’s guessing, what this “village” used to look like. It’s basically the same, except sepia toned, which increases the old west vibe. His mom would have found this place interesting. She saw the good and beauty in everything. He just wishes she had the opportunity to actually see more places, like she always wanted to. 

A giant stack of postcards isn’t going to do anything about that, though. He puts them all back except one. That had been their tradition, anyway; one from each place. 

“Why don’t we get more?” Gamora says suddenly, picking up the stack he just put down. “We can mail them to the others. They might like that.” 

“Oh!” says Peter, brightening. “I'll bet they would!” Or, he thinks, at least Mantis will. He can picture Groot trying to act too cool about mail from his mom, and Rocket essentially doing the same. Drax, he thinks, will probably be confused by the concept in the way that only he can be. Next he wonders if there's a card here that would win Nebula over, or if they should maybe bring her a souvenir from every location they visit--a list of conquered destinations, so to speak. 

When he turns to suggest it to her, though, he finds her attention fixed on a display of t-shirts. They're all in bold patterns and all obnoxiously patriotic even in his proudly-Terran opinion. 

“Peter?” she says tentatively, holding up one of the shirts. “What does this mean?”

The shirt is a blue tie-dye pattern, with a flag and letters spelling MURICA across the front. 

He squints at it, wondering whether he ought to be able to recognize it. He's pretty sure it's a word he's never seen before, though. “Um...maybe somebody's name? A historical figure. Or, like, one of the towns nearby.”

“So you don't know,” says Gamora. 

“Yeah I do!” he says quickly. “It's totally one of things I just said.”

“It’s okay not to know,” she says, voice gentle. “I’m sure things have changed in the past thirty years.”

“I know.” Thinking about that makes him feel restless and squirmy, though, so he casts around for something he _does_ recognize. His eyes light up when he sees the display across from this one. “Hey, check this out!”

It’s an entire section dedicated to Old West stuff--so that whole vibe that this place gives off may have been intentional, which would be strange considering he’s pretty sure Pennsylvania isn’t considered western. There’s cowboy stuff _everywhere_ , and for a minute he’s an eight-year-old kid again, begging his mom for a rope so he can make a lasso like a real cowboy. 

“Cowboys!” he says enthusiastically, showing a bobble-head version to Gamora. 

Her eyes light up too, in recognition. “This is what you wanted to be when you were a child?”

“Yeah, I was obsessed with them,” he says, a little dreamily. “I wonder if Groot would like this… Probably not. It’s not a video game.” He keeps a hold of it anyway.

Then he notices Gamora’s attention has wandered to a selection of calendars, all of them with different shirtless cowboys. He’s about to get jealous when she smirks at him and says, “You would definitely make a good cowboy.” 

“Oh yeah?” he asks smugly, wanting to milk this. 

“Yes,” she says indulgently. Having finished her ice cream, she delicately wipes her mouth, then throws away her crumpled napkin. She's still looking back and forth between the calendar pictures and him, he notices. 

Grinning, he drops his posture into his best cowboy swagger and takes a couple steps closer to her. When he speaks, he puts on a thick approximation of the accent he's pretty sure he remembers from cowboy movies. “Well howdy there, little lady. What can I do for ya today? Need protectin’ from any bandits?”

Gamora rolls her eyes, but he's pretty sure there's amusement in them. 

“How ‘bout some horses ya need broken in?” he tries. He's pretty sure that's what it was called, anyway. 

This time she blinks in confusion. “What?”

“A horse!” Peter mimes shading his eyes with one hand, then pretends to see something in the near distance. “There! I'm gonna lasso that there horse for ya!”

He pulls an imaginary rope from his belt, fashions it into an invisible lasso and starts to spin it. Glancing sideways at Gamora, he makes the motions bigger and bigger, then starts gyrating his hips along with the invisible rope because, well...what else is a good cowboy to do in the presence of a lady as beautiful as her?

She’s staring at him with wide, stunned eyes, laughing like she just can’t help it. “Peter,” she snorts. “What are you _doing_?”

“I’m gettin’ you that there horse!” he repeats. He throws his invisible rope towards the shelves full of figurines, then acts as if he’s struggling to pull something in. He hands her the rope with a gallant bow. 

“Is that what cowboys do?” she asks incredulously, with a smile on her face that makes all that ridiculousness worth it. “Give horses to people?”

“No,” he says, losing the drawl. “They _lasso_ horses for beautiful ladies. And you’re the most beautiful lady in all the land.”

She shakes her head, but keeps hold of the invisible reins. “Well, thank you.”

“You wanna get the calendar?” he asks, flipping it over so they can see all the poses for the various months. “We can tape pictures of my face over them.”

“I think I would prefer if you posed for the pictures yourself.”

He puffs out his chest. “I would totally do that.”

“I know you would,” she laughs.

“We’d have to do November on Earth,” he says, pointing to that month. “There are no cows in space for me to pose next to.”

“I will keep that in mind.”

“June kinda looks like Thor,” he says. “If he were better looking, of course.”

Gamora rolls her eyes. “We should get this calendar for Drax, then.”

“I wish they could see this,” says Peter, a bit wistfully. True, they could buy and mail any of these things to the Compound, but that seems kind of like a waste when all he really wants is to see the looks on their faces when confronted with cheesy Earth souvenirs. 

“Peter?” asks Gamora, for the umpteenth time. She's dropped her hold on the invisible rope, he notices. 

“Awww,” he whines. “You're letting the horse get away. Did you just wanna see me catch it again?”

“Peter,” she sighs. “You had that far away look on your face. Are you all right? If something's bothering you…”

“I'm fine, I'm fine,” he says quickly, touched by how closely she's watching him, how she's got his back like always, even here in what's arguably his territory. “Just wish the holos worked in real time. This place would be comedy gold.”

Gamora nods thoughtfully. “Do you think the phones are capable of calling them?”

“Oh!” He could slap himself for not thinking of this himself. “That’s like their main purpose. Except… I don’t think we can call a holo from them. I bet Stark has other phones at the Compound, though!” 

He pulls his out of his pocket, the place he usually keeps his holo. The phone function is easy enough to find, but when he clicks on it, a screen comes up with a number pad. “Oh, right. Crap. You need a number.”

“A number?”

“A series of numbers, really. That’s how Terrans call each other.”

She looks skeptical, but he remembers this for sure. His mom had a phone, though it was way different from this one. It attached to the wall by a curly cord that he used to love to play with. He’d press some buttons, not enough to actually call anyone, and pretend to be talking to his dad, asking him how the tour in Germany was going. 

“How does having a series of numbers call a person?” Gamora asks, looking over his shoulder at the screen. 

“Hell if I know.” He clicks over to the contacts, his thumb feeling too large and clumsy for the device, and manages to pull them up. There’s only four: Compound, Emergency, Gamora, Tony. 

“I suppose that one is for the phone he gave me,” she says. “That was thoughtful of him.”

“Oh, probably,” says Peter. He considers, fingers hovering between the selections for Tony and Compound. True, Stark can tell him for sure how to reach the others, or assist them in calling him. But he's loath to admit that he needs that sort of assistance, particularly given how indebted to Stark they already are. And particularly considering that Gamora would be watching the whole thing. 

“Maybe this is them,” he says finally, pushing the number for Compound instead. It would make sense, giving them some sort of a shared line. 

“Hello?!” Gamora shouts the second the phone moves to the dialing screen, voice so loud and sudden that Peter nearly jumps out of his skin. 

He shakes his head vehemently, glad there's hardly anyone else in the shop with them. “No, no, you put it up to your ear! But they aren't on the line yet, it's still connecting.”

“Oh,” she says, cheeks flushing. “Well, it is taking quite some time.”

He shrugs, holding the phone to his ear. She’ll still easily be able to hear it. “Guess Terran phones take a while.”

It only takes two rings before a robotic, female-sounding voice answers. “Hello, Mr. Lord.”

“You gotta be kidding me with this,” he mutters. 

“My name is Friday. How may I direct your call?” the voice continues. 

“Uhh…” He glances at Gamora, who has no better idea than he does. “The Guardians of the Galaxy?”

“There are no Guardians of the Galaxy in my directory,” Friday says. “Did you mean Space Avengers?”

“God, that’s such a lame name,” he sighs. “But yeah, probably.”

“Excellent. Which one?” 

“Um…” 

This time Gamora does have an answer when he looks at her questioningly. “Rocket.”

He nods. Of all of them, Rocket is the most likely to have figured out how to work these things. “Yeah, Rocket,” he says. 

“Calling Rocket,” Friday says, before her voice is replaced by a ringing noise that goes on for a lot longer than it had the first time. 

“Maybe it doesn’t work,” Gamora says, scrutinizing the phone as if watching it for misbehavior. 

It goes on for so long that Peter takes the phone away from his ear, glancing at the screen to see if it's actually working. Apparently it's a good thing he does, because an instant later, Groot’s face appears on the screen. 

He's frowning in confusion, and Peter thinks that's an odd contact photo for Rocket to have on his phone before Groot starts waving and he realizes that the call is live. 

“Oh!” says Peter, and waves back enthusiastically, which surprisingly gets no response. _Teenagers,_ he thinks, but then realizes that maybe Groot can't see him. “Hey, bud!” He doesn't think to put the phone back up to his ear, too caught up in the image on the screen. 

“I am Groot?” comes Groot’s voice faintly. 

“What?” asks Peter, every bit as loudly as Gamora did a moment before. 

“He said he can't hear you,” she explains, apparently making use of her enhanced ears. 

“Tell the morons they gotta put it on video and speaker mode,” comes Rocket’s voice from the background, clearly yelling, though still faint. 

“What?!” Peter repeats, feeling as though that might as well be a foreign language. Clearly this is one of those times Groot's right about him being old and utterly uncool, outdated tech or not. 

“I am Groot!” shouts Groot, but it still loses nearly all of the inflection, which means it might as well be Centaurian to Peter’s ears. 

“He says push these two buttons,” says Gamora, reaching over to work the touchscreen deftly. 

Suddenly Groot’s face lights up, the kind of open affection and excitement he rarely shows anymore. There’s a tiny square in the corner of their screen now where Peter can see half of his face, and the top of Gamora’s head. He tilts the phone so they’re both more visible and waves again. 

Groot waves back. “I am Groot?” 

“We’re in a place called America Village,” he answers. 

“That’s a dumbass name if I ever heard one,” Rocket says, popping up on the screen next to Groot. Groot must be sitting down, because their faces are about level. 

Peter scoffs. “More like… Okay, yeah, it’s a pretty dumb name. You guys would love it, though.”

“What would we love?” calls a voice from the background, and then Rocket is being squished up against Groot’s side as Drax’s torso takes up half the screen. 

“Hey, watch it!” Rocket shoves his paws against Drax’s side, but he gives no indication that he even notices, leaning down to peer into the phone. 

“It is Quill and Gamora!” he shouts, standing up again and yelling off screen, “Mantis! Come say hi to Quill and Gamora!” 

“Oh!” comes Mantis’s voice, filled with excitement. Then there's the sound of a brief scuffle as she apparently grabs the phone from Rocket, followed by her antennae and forehead filling the screen. “Hi, Quill and Gamora!”

“Hey Mantis,” says Peter. “You wanna--um--give the phone back to Rocket? Maybe he can make it so everyone can see, I wanna show you guys where we are.”

“Some dumbass place called America Village,” says Rocket, as he takes the phone back and sets it somewhere high enough to show all of them simultaneously. They look good, Peter has to admit. Relaxed. Or as relaxed as they ever get. 

“I thought we were all in the village called America,” says Drax. 

“No, no,” says Peter. “America is the country we're in. This place is just a store named America Village.”

“Then it is not a village,” says Drax. 

“It has a deceptive name!” Mantis agrees. 

“I had that thought as well,” says Gamora, with a hint of disapproval.

Peter sighs. “Okay, okay, but look!” He holds the phone up vertically, panning it across the store. 

“Um, Quill?” says Rocket, looking utterly exasperated. 

“Yeah?”

“You gotta turn the phone around or all we’re gonna see is your dumb face.”

They all laugh, including Gamora. Despite the fact that it’s at his expense, the sound warms something in his chest. 

“Hey,” he says, nudging Gamora with his elbow. “I thought you liked my face.”

She smiles playfully, but before she can say anything, Rocket cuts in. “If you two start making out, I’m hanging up.”

Peter rolls his eyes and turns the phone around, moving it in a sweeping circle again. “We could totally make out without them seeing now,” he stage-whispers. 

“I knew they would!” Drax yells. Groot and Rocket make disgusted noises. Mantis is busy cooing over the display of notebooks, the only one who actually seems to care about what he’s showing them. When he turns the phone back around, everyone else looks utterly unimpressed. 

“Whoop-de-doo,” Rocket says. “It’s a store.”

“It is indeed a store,” Drax says, “and not a village.” 

“I am Groot?” 

“Uh, no, I don’t think they have any video games,” Peter says, then quickly adds, “But they have lots of other stuff! Look at this.” 

He holds the cowboy calendar up in front of the phone. “Check out June, Drax. Doesn’t he look like Thor?”

“Thor is much more handsome than that,” Drax says immediately. “And more muscular.” 

Peter shakes his head. “Have you asked him to dinner yet?”

Drax frowns. “Why would I do that?”

“Uh, because you've got a crush on him,” says Peter, then realizes how poorly that's probably going to go and quickly elaborates. “I mean, you like him. Mantis might say you feel sexual love for him.”

“I did not say that,” says Mantis.

“Oh!” says Drax, apparently catching on. “You mean you think I wish to court him!” His frown returns. “But why would I ask him to eat with me? If I wished to court him, I would challenge him to combat!”

This time Peter makes a face. “Wait. Then why are you always asking me to spar?”

Drax laughs uproariously. “Because it is hilariously pathetic! It is not courtship, Quill. That would require fighting you to be a true challenge!”

“Hey!” Peter looks over at Gamora for support, but finds her hiding a giggle behind a hand instead. Part of him wants to be offended, but mostly it feels like a victory. 

“It would be an honor to fight the god-man,” Drax says more seriously. “But I have no wish to court anyone. Hovat was my only love.”

They’re all quiet for a beat, suddenly solemn. Drax had been vindicated when they finally killed Thanos, but Peter understands more than ever now that it’s a hollow victory when you’ve lost someone you love. He doesn’t think he’s ever understood Drax more than during that time Gamora was gone. 

The moment is quickly broken when Mantis lets out an “Ooh!” and points to something behind them. “What are those?” 

Peter turns to look. “Oh, those are keychains.”

“What is a keychain?” Gamora asks curiously as they take a couple steps over to the display. They’re metal engravings of the American flag, with a different person’s name written across each one. 

“Well, Terrans have physical keys to open stuff,” he says. “But they lose ‘em a lot. So they have keychains to help them keep track of whose is whose.” 

“That’s the dumbest thing I ever heard,” Rocket mutters. 

“They have names on them!” Mantis says excitedly. 

Peter nods. “I don’t think they’ll have a Mantis, though.” Her antennae wilt and he adds, “But hey, how ‘bout a…Martha? That can be your Terran name.” He picks one up to show it to her. 

“Oh, yes!” She claps enthusiastically. 

“We’ll bring it back for you,” Peter says. Mantis has always liked collecting the most random things. 

Mantis claps her hands excitedly. “I would like that very much!”

Peter hands the keychain over to Gamora since he's still holding the phone. “Anybody else want a keychain?”

“I do not have keys,” says Drax.

“Well, yeah,” Peter allows. “But you can do other stuff with ‘em too. Like...ooh, maybe you could use one to keep track of your grenades, Rocket! And I have the perfect Terran name for you.”

He grabs another one and holds it up to the phone so the others can see that it reads ‘Dick.’

Rocket rolls his eyes, but it's good-natured for once. “Ha ha, very funny. They got any that says Asswipe? Cause that'd perfect for you.”

Drax is still staring at the keychain in Peter's hand, frowning. “That sounds nothing like ‘Rocket.’”

Rocket smacks his forehead with a paw. “Just get one that says ‘Morons.’ It can be a communal keychain!”

“If only,” says Gamora, smirking. 

“I am Groot!” says Groot, pointing at the display. 

“Oh!” says Peter, eagerly getting back to business. “Sure bud, you can have one too! How about...Greg?” Groot makes a face. “George? Grant?” 

“I am Groot.”

“Okay, Grant it is,” he says, selecting that one. “You want one too, Drax?”

“I have no use for a keychain,” he says matter-of-factly.

“All right, nevermind--”

“I want one.”

He sighs. “Okay, you can be...Dave, then.” 

“That sounds like a strong warrior’s name! I approve!” 

“I guess this is a group activity then,” Peter says happily, pulling another one down and handing it to Gamora. “You can be Gabriella.”

She takes it with a small smile. “We should get one for Nebula too,” she says, tone a bad imitation of casual. 

“Good idea!” he says, picking up a Natalie, then a Kyle. “For Kraglin, too. And I, of course, will be Peter.” 

“Hey!” Rocket says. “If we all gotta have dumb Terran names, so do you!”

“Peter _is_ my dumb--I mean, is my Terran name. I’m Terran, remember?” 

“I am Groot!”

“It is a group activity, Peter,” Gamora says, smirking. She turns to rifle through the display. “Or should I say... Patrick?”

“Fine, fine.” He takes the keychain and adds it to the collection he’s holding. They should’ve gotten a basket. “Anyone else want souvenirs _besides_ keychains?” They all glance at each other and shrug. “Really? A whole store of shit and all you guys want is a keychain? C’mon, how about...some coloring books?” He waves one enticingly in front of the phone. “This one teaches the names of all fifty states while you color!” 

“How does one become a color?” asks Drax, looking skeptically at Rocket, as if expecting backup on this. 

Instead Rocket runs his paws back through his fur, looking for all the world like a human on the verge of tearing his hair out. “No! It's a kid thing, where they take some paint or somethin’ and fill in the pictures with it. Like that game Groot was obsessed with a couple of years ago, only they do it on paper because they're stuck a century out of date.”

“Oh!” says Drax, as if he's just had an epiphany. “Yes! I used to do that with my daughter! We called it ‘coloring in the book.’”

Peter sighs. “That is _exactly_ what I just said.”

“Oooh!” Mantis interrupts, pointing enthusiastically at something over Peter's shoulder. “What are _those_?” At first he thinks she's nodding very excitedly, but then he turns around and catches sight of the shelf full of bobbleheads behind him, wobbling in unison with the movements she's making on the screen. 

“Bobblehead dolls!” he says eagerly, taking the phone over to them. 

“I am Groot?” 

“Nothing’s wrong with them! They’re supposed to be like that.” He taps the nearest one--a guy in a baseball uniform-- and its head bobs even more. 

Mantis cheers. “I want that one!” 

“Are you sure?” he asks. “There’s a ton.” He shows them the whole shelf, which is full of important historical figures like George Washington and a bunch of other people he doesn’t recognize, plus some others. “Check this one out!” He points to a cowboy, and the horribly freaky yet amazing bobblehead horse next to him. 

“I am sure.” 

“What about you, Groot?” He picks up the cowboy and wiggles it enticingly. “Cowboy? Huh?”

“I am Groot.” He points to an astronaut one a couple shelves up. 

“I want the man with the large club as well!” Drax says, pointing to the baseball player in Peter’s hand. 

“I’ll stay away from the demon dolls, thanks,” Rocket says dryly. 

“None of you have any taste,” Peter mutters, bobbing the cowboy again. 

“I would like the cowboy.” Gamora is holding out her hand, and though he’s pretty sure she’s just humoring him, he brightens instantly. 

“Here you go!” says Peter, handing the cowboy over carefully. Still, he can't quite resist being just a little smug. “But you've already got a cowboy right in these here britches!”

Gamora blinks. “What?”

“Oh. Pants. Like...there's a cowboy in my pants because…” He trails off, acutely aware of the others still watching him. “Because the cowboy is me and I'm yours. But um. That cowboy can also be yours once we pay for him.”

When he hazards a glance at the phone again, the others are staring, each with their own particular brand of judgment. 

Peter flushes so hard it feels like his entire body is on fire, then sighs. “Anybody else want a cowboy?”

“Not if it's in your pants,” says Rocket. 

“Right,” says Peter. “Um. Anything else, then?”

“No thank you!” Mantis says brightly. 

“Just go make out already,” says Rocket, apparently defaulting back to that. 

“It's been nice talking to you too,” says Gamora, a little tartly, and there's a silent but undeniable shift that goes through the group. 

“Hey,” says Rocket. “Be careful out there.”

“Yes,” Drax agrees. “I do not wish to begin avenging people again.”

“Nebula’s already doing that!” Mantis pipes up. 

“Exactly,” Peter says, trying to sound reassuring. “She’s taking care of that enough for all of us. Besides, we’re gonna be fine.”

Groot glances away from the screen, looking almost shy. “I am Groot.” 

Peter melts, and Gamora’s voice is a bit wobbly when she replies, “We love you, too.” 

“Now you’ve gone and made them all mushy,” Rocket says. 

He’s smiling, though. They all are.

* * *

They make it to Ohio before they stop for the night. Knight Rider had been not-so-subtly relieved when they decided not to stay in America Village, saying he’d been wondering if they were trying to tour all the seediest hotels in the country. But Peter figures there’s gotta be some middle ground between run-down crap holes and thousand dollar a night New York hotels. 

Knight Rider informs them that there is (right after informing them that that’s not a very exact measuring system) and Peter is already pretty pleased with their choice when the card key grants him access to their room on the first try. 

“Oh my god,” he says, groaning in relief. “The AC works.” He flicks the lightswitch next to the door. “And the lights aren’t even flickering!” 

“I don't know how we’ll cope with this luxury,” Gamora deadpans, but she's already in the process of taking off her boots roughly thirty seconds after walking through the door. 

For a moment Peter just watches her, absolutely struck dumb by how much he loves her, by what a relief it's been to see her relatively lighthearted for most of the afternoon. That thought leads him naturally to a reminder of the fact that she was completely and utterly alone inside of the Stone, that it was so much longer than the horrible few days he'd spent facing the world without her. That she was desperate enough to try and construct his likeness. 

Moving in a rush, Peter crosses the few feet of space still separating them, touching her shoulder in a light warning before wrapping his arms around her waist from behind and burying his face in her hair. 

“Hi,” she says softly, though she doesn't sound very surprised. 

He loosens his grip a little and she turns, kissing him on the lips. It's warm enough but still clearly restrained, not intended to lead anywhere else just yet. Still, he enjoys every second of it, resting his forehead against hers after she breaks away. 

“So,” she says finally. “Are we going to eat chips for dinner or did you have something else in mind?”

“Um--no, yeah,” he says, taken aback by the suddenness of the question but deciding to roll with it. “There’s way too many good Earth foods for us to just eat chips the whole time. Uh…” 

He casts around for an idea, eyes landing on the booklet sitting on the nightstand. Other hotels they’ve stayed at throughout the galaxy have had room service of some form or another; maybe Earth hotels are the same. 

It turns out that they’re not--or at least, this one isn’t--but they’ve got something that will work just as well. 

“How about delivery?” 

“Sure,” Gamora says, pulling her pajamas out of their bag. 

“There’s a few places that deliver here,” he says, scanning the provided menus. “What do you want? Pizza, sandwiches, barbeque…” He intentionally leaves out Chinese. 

“That all sounds fine,” she says dispassionately. “You pick.” 

He watches her walk into the bathroom and close the door, hand tightening anxiously around the menu. She’s still not showing her usual enthusiasm for food, or any enthusiasm, really. But she was like that with the cheese balls and the breakfast food, too, and she liked those once she tried them. She’ll come around, he reminds himself. She just needs time. 

Peter eyes the bathroom door for a bit, then decides that's creepy. Kicking off his boots, he flops down on the bed, then nearly goes flying back off when the amount of bounce in the mattress takes him by surprise. Springing back to his feet, he can't help grinning to himself, getting a flash of memory of doing this with his mother on their roadtrip a lifetime ago. They'd both been standing on the mattress then, trying to bounce high enough to touch the ceiling. 

He's pretty sure he's too heavy to do that now, but he's not going to waste the opportunity entirely. This time he flops back onto it even more enthusiastically, prepared. By the fourth time, he's tired of getting sprung back up onto his feet, so he turns around, bouncing on his knees. After that, he completely loses himself in the exhilaration of it, in the memories of a happy time, of feeling like a child again in a way that's good for once. 

He completely misses the bathroom door opening until Gamora's voice cuts in. “Peter? What are you doing?”

He freezes, though the mattress continues to undulate underneath him. “Um. Bouncing on the bed? You wanna join me?”

“What is the purpose?” she asks, standing still in the bathroom doorway. 

“To have fun!” he says. “And to try to touch the ceiling.”

“Wouldn’t that be easier if you stood up?”

“The point isn't to make it _easier_ ,” he says, holding his hand out for her. “It’s for the fun of it!” 

At first, he’s sure she’s going to say no, that she’s not in the mood for such ridiculousness. She surprises him, though, climbing up on the bed with a wary look in her eyes, facing him on her knees.

“Okay, now--” He starts bouncing again, unable to get much height on his knees, but stubbornly reaching for the ceiling anyway. Gamora’s able to keep her balance much better than he can, even while their movements combine to make the mattress super unstable, but she’s no more able to reach the ceiling from this position than he is. 

“This is foolish,” she says after about a minute, though she’s smiling, cheeks beautifully flushed from exertion. She stands up gracefully, hand raised above her head. Her shirt rides up just enough for him to catch a glimpse of her abdomen as she bounces a single time, pressing her hand flat to the ceiling--still no silver. 

Peter freezes, feeling like someone's dumped a bucket of ice water into the pit of his stomach. It's not like he's really expected her to heal so quickly--he knows it's only been a day since he first noticed, only four since she's been back at all. He can only imagine the heartbeat that must feel like in comparison to the time she spent inside of the Stone. Still, it's difficult not to worry. 

“Peter?” says Gamora, looking down at him with the now-familiar expression that means he's been quiet long enough to get her concerned. “What is it?”

“Nothing!” he says quickly, because of course the last thing he wants is to make her feel pressured. “Just--you won. Bouncing competition's over! You're a natural at it, just like everything else.”

She sighs, folding her legs gracefully so that she's sitting opposite him on the bed. “What is it really?”

“ _Nothing_ ,” he insists, then relents when it's clear she's just going to get irritated if he doesn't. “Just--how are you feeling?”

“Hungry,” she says pointedly. “I don't suppose you ordered dinner yet?”

“I was just about to get to that!” he says, reaching for the menu again. “How does pizza sound?” 

“Fine,” she says without inflection. 

“Just wait,” he says, pulling out his phone. “You’re gonna love this.”

“I have had pizza before.”

He shakes his head, clumsily dialing the number. “No, you haven’t. This is another thing the rest of the galaxy thinks they have but really, Earth pizza is the only true pizza.” He shows her the picture on the menu.

“Oh. That does look good,” she says with mild interest, which he counts as a victory. 

He doesn’t have time to do a victory dance, though, because a bored-sounding voice on the other end of the line greets him and asks for his order. 

“A large pizza,” he says confidently. 

“What kind of crust?”

“Uh...regular?” he says, confidence quickly faltering. How many different kinds of crust could there be? What, did Earth change crust now, too? 

“What toppings?”

“Uh…” He glances at the menu, realizing that he never really read it before. He finds the list of toppings, then remembers the Awesome Toppings combo he and his mom used to get. “Pineapple and pepperoni!”

There’s a brief pause on the other end of the line. “...Are you sure?”

“Hell _yes_ I’m sure,” says Peter, insecurity tipping over into bravado. “Only the most awesomest--” He catches himself, clears his throat. “ _\--awesome_ toppings ever.”

There’s a sigh on the other end of the line, which is definitely from the guy realizing the error of his ways. “Anything else?”

“Ketchup, please,” he says grandly, looking at Gamora to see whether she’s appreciating his brilliance. She isn’t even looking at him, though, stretched out on her side flipping through the rest of the menus instead. He wonders briefly whether he should have picked something else, but he’s definitely committed to this now. “And ranch! Double ranch.”

This time the pause on the other end is so long that Peter’s about to ask whether the phone’s still working when the dude speaks again. “You know this is an actual order, right? You order a prank pizza, you pay for it anyway.”

“What the hell is a prank pizza?” asks Peter. “I just ordered an awesome one. And yes, of course I’m gonna pay for it.” He looks at Gamora again, rolling his eyes and sticking out his tongue, but she’s still not paying attention.

“Fine,” says the phone guy. “But I’m gonna need your card info now.”

Peter flops dramatically back against the pillows, making it clear in his tone how irritated he is as he gives the payment and address information. He notices Gamora lingering on the menu for the place they’re ordering from. “You want anything else?” he asks her. 

“No, I’m fine,” she says absently. But there’s a chocolate cake on the page she’s looking at, so he gets two of those, plus some soda, oh and of course some breadsticks. The guy tells him it’ll be there in 30 to 40 minutes, then hangs up, but Gamora actually glanced over at the mention of chocolate so he’s counting this as another win. 

She’s still pretty apathetic to like, everything right now, though, and he does his best not to be too concerned. 

“Wanna see if the TV works?” he asks. 

“All right,” she says easily. At least she finally closes the menu booklet. 

It takes him a couple tries to figure out the remote, then feels dumb when the power button is right on top. The TV comes instantly to life, showing a lady standing in front of what looks like a map with a bunch of arrows on it, talking about wind and weather patterns. 

“It works!” he cheers, throwing both hands up in the air with way more enthusiasm than he actually feels--not that he isn’t pleased that it works. 

Gamora gives him a wan smile, which he’s pretty sure is just to placate him. 

“Are you sure you’re okay?” he asks, studying her. It’s not just that she seems subdued, it’s the contrast with her energy earlier, the way she’d been curious about the souvenirs. The way she’d smiled and laughed. The way, for a little while, it had felt like things were just fine.

She sighs, shifting to get under the covers. “I don’t know what you want me to say, Peter.”

“I want you to be honest,” he says immediately, heart breaking at the idea that she might think anything else, that she might think she needs to protect him.

She’s quiet for a long moment, fingers tracing along a wrinkle in the comforter, her eyes following its winding path. “He’s still in my head,” she says finally, meeting his gaze. “ _It’s_ still in my head.”

Peter blinks, trying to follow. “You mean--Thanos? And the Stone? In your head like...is it still talking to you?”

“No,” she says immediately, firmly. “No, like--like Ego was in your head, afterward.”

“ _Oh,_ ” he breathes, because of course he remembers that all too well. He remembers the nightmares, the doubts, the fresh wounds and the ones that had been reopened. “Oh, babe, of course it is. It’s--What can I do?”

She swallows. “Tell me this is real. Make me believe it.”

“It’s real,” he says quickly, mind racing to figure out a way to convince her. “I promise it’s real. You couldn’t feel the shadows in the Stone, right?”

She shakes her head. He sinks down further on the bed so he’s lying on his back next to her and covers her hand gently with his. “Okay, so feel the bedspread under your hand. Feel my hand over yours.”

“I know _where_ I am, Peter,” she sighs, but she flattens her hand against the bed anyway. 

“Feel that it’s _real_ , then,” he insists. “That it’s not just a dream.” 

“I couldn’t dream there,” she says, almost absently. “Couldn’t sleep. I don’t know if that was a good or bad thing. At least I didn’t have to keep waking up and realizing what my reality was.” 

“Well--exactly,” he says, though her words send a fresh tear through his heart. “So this can’t be a dream.” 

“I know.” She doesn’t sound convinced, like he didn’t actually make her feel any better. He struggles to come up with some other way, something to convince her to trust that _this_ is reality. 

“Hey,” he says gently, wrapping his hand around hers. “I’ll do this for the rest of our lives, until you _know_ this is real.” 

Gamora makes a soft sound at that, then rolls over abruptly, curling into him. 

He exhales in a rush, throat suddenly too tight to say anything, and pulls her closer until she's practically lying on top of him, forehead pressed against his neck. 

“Better?” he asks, swallowing hard. He knows better than to think he can fix any of this for her right now, but he'll do anything in the world if it helps even a tiny bit. 

She runs a hand across his chest, flattening her palm against it. He recognizes what she's doing instantly, knows that she can feel his heartbeat. She can hear it too, with her enhancements, but she's always liked feeling it when she's upset. 

“Better,” she echoes softly, pressing a kiss to the side of his throat. 

“What was that for?” asks Peter, kissing her temple in return. 

She shakes her head, curling even closer. “Just--I love you.”

“Oh,” he breathes, feeling nearly overwhelmed by the simple statement. Four years and it never gets any less intense. “I love you too.”

Resting a hand on her back, he settles in with the rhythm of her breathing, and hopes for once that the pizza guy decides to take his time.


	12. Chapter 12

Even Peter had to admit, he’s gone a little overboard with this one. He may be stepping into Frankenstein territory. 

Gamora’s side-eyeing him as he leaves a trail of Dorito crumbs on their path through the parking lot. “I thought you said putting ketchup on pizza turned out to be ‘as disgusting as something scraped off of Drax’s shoe.’” 

“I know,” he says, carefully balancing the slice while he sprinkles gummy worms on top of it. “I wanted to see if it was any better on cold pizza.” 

“And?” 

He takes a bite, chews slowly, and sighs. “Still disgusting. But the Doritos mostly hide the taste.” 

“I suppose your experiment worked then.” 

He shakes his head sadly. “I swear, this was the most delicious thing on Earth when I was a kid.” 

“Perhaps your palate has changed in the past thirty years.” 

“I guess.” He forces a smile as they reach the car, picking off a clean gummy worm and offering it to her. “Hungry? All you had was some trail mix.” 

“That was sufficient.” 

He sighs again, letting his shoulders slump the last few steps to the car, exhausted in just about every way. 

The night had seemed promising to start with--comfortable hotel room, mindless noise on television, Gamora pleasantly curled up in his arms, more open than she’s been in a while. The pizza had been good, though not as good as he’d remembered from childhood, and certainly not with the ketchup. The ranch had been pretty good, though, and the chocolate cake had more than earned her approval. 

Of course any semblance of peace or contentment was out the window the moment he'd fallen asleep. The nightmares are still relentless, watching Gamora die over and over in his dreams, different variations this time but all of them featuring his failure. For her part, he's relatively certain she sat up all night, not even attempting sleep. He knows that she doesn't need much, but she's still healing, and he can't ignore how haggard she's looking in the morning light. 

“You sure you wanna get back on the road?” he asks, opening the car door for her. “We don't have to, we could stay and rest.”

“The last time I checked,” she says pointedly, “ _rest_ has not exactly been restful.”

“I--yeah, okay, fair point,” he says as she slides into the car. He might actually feel _more_ tired than he did before he went to sleep. 

He waits until he’s gotten in the car as well before speaking again. “Let’s do something, though. We shouldn’t just drive the whole day.” If they can’t have rest, might as well have distraction.

“Sure,” Gamora says, holding a hand out and expertly catching a Dorito as it falls from his pizza. At least she’s still got her reflexes. 

“Hey, Knight Rider,” Peter says around a mouthful. 

The car turns on at the sound of his name. “Good morning Mr. Star-Lord; Ms. Gamora.” 

Gamora politely returns the greeting, but Peter’s too preoccupied by sudden realization when he catches sight of the shopping bags in the back. “Guess what, bud? We got you a present!”

Knight Rider is silent for a couple seconds while Peter rummages around the bags. “...Are you speaking to me?”

“Sure am.”

“You purchased a present for the Artificial Intelligence system of a car?”

“Sure did. Forgot to give it to you yesterday.” He triumphantly pulls out the cowboy bobblehead and places it on the center of the dash. “Well, really it’s for all of us. Check it out… _Can_ you see it?”

“I can scan anything in order to determine its appearance, yes.”

“Then take a look at it!” he says brightly. 

“Technically,” says Gamora, “I believe that one belongs to me.”

“Oh,” says Peter, a bit taken aback. To be fair, he hasn't forgotten that she was the one who’d claimed it, but he'd been pretty sure that was just to make him feel less silly. “Sorry, I didn't--"

She just smiles, though, and he realizes suddenly that she was teasing. “Just as long as I get credit where credit is due.”

“Right!” he agrees. “Right, so, this one's a present from her!” He waits a moment, then when she nods, he leans over to dig through the bag again, coming up with the bobblehead horse. “ _This_ is a present from me!”

“Two gifts for a program with no material possessions,” says Knight Rider. 

“Do you like them?” asks Peter, reaching out to boing both of their heads. 

The bobbleheads bobble back, as though agreeing vehemently with him. 

“They are horrifying,” says Knight Rider. 

Peter grins. “You're welcome, bud.” 

Knight Rider lets out that sound that isn’t quite a sigh but that Peter is pretty sure _would_ be a sigh if he were capable of making that kind of sound, and says, “Would you like to get back on your way to Elmore City?” 

“Not yet,” Peter says, polishing off the last of his pizza concoction. “We wanna go somewhere first.”

“Certainly. Where would you like to go?”

“I dunno,” he says. He glances at Gamora, who shrugs one shoulder. “Somewhere not too far away and not too crowded.”

“Specific, as always, Mr. Star-Lord,” Knight Rider drawls. “There are numerous restaurants in the area, would you like one of those?”

“Just ate,” Peter says, after making sure Gamora’s not suddenly showing interest in food. “What else you got?”

“There is a library--”

“Snooze. Next.”

“Besides that, the only thing in the immediate area besides more hotels is a small, regional airport.”

“So go outside the immediate area.” He looks at Gamora and gestures with his thumb to the dashboard in a ‘can you believe this guy?’ motion. Unlike with the pizza order last night, this time she is paying attention and rewards him with a small, if tense, smile. 

“I saw that,” Knight Rider says dryly. “I will recalculate… There is a toy museum approximately two hours away, is that more within your interests?”

“Maybe!” says Peter, glancing over at Gamora. He's never done any kind of a museum with her, unless trying to sell the Orb to the Collector counts. 

That particular memory is a mistake; the next thing he knows he's picturing Knowhere and his hands are shaking and he's wishing he hadn't eaten pizza for breakfast because his stomach is threatening to rebel. 

“Peter,” Gamora's voice cuts in, followed by her hand on his knee, shaking him gently. “Peter, come back.”

He tenses, then shakes his head. “Sorry, sorry. Just--kinda sleepy, yeah?”

She gives him a look that says she knows that's bullshit and catches both of his hands in hers. “So, Knight Rider was just telling me that the toy museum tends to be popular in the summer. Which means it might be crowded.”

“Oh,” he breathes. That makes sense. “Okay, so maybe not that, then.” He squeezes Gamora's fingers, tries to feel how warm her hands are in his, how comparatively steady. “Any other ideas, then?”

“There is a cryptozoology museum less than an hour away,” Knight Rider says, but he sounds reluctant. “It does not appear to be very popular. Or very large. I would sooner call it a small, converted house than a museum.”

He nods, taking slow, deliberate breaths. “That sounds promising. Just one thing: What the hell is cryptozoology?”

“It is the study of animals that do not exist,” Knight Rider says. “But that some people insist are real, anyway.”

“Sounds weird.” He looks to Gamora, who’s more focused on him than the discussion. He tries not to feel guilty about that. It helps that her expression seems more clear, more like her than it had a minute ago. “I’m in.”

“Okay,” she says easily. “Let’s go.”

“Certainly.”

Then they’re moving, and it takes concentrated effort for Peter to quell the nausea that returns at their sudden motion. 

“Are you okay?” Gamora asks, giving his fingers a squeeze. 

“Yeah,” he says, focusing on their joined hands, grounding himself. “Sorry. I don’t know where that came from.”

“Same place it did last night?” she asks, shifting closer and letting go of one of his hands to touch his cheek instead.

Knight Rider’s pretty much learned to keep the console retracted now, isn’t putting it back into its original position at all. Apparently he does have some consideration, much as he might enjoy misinterpreting instructions whenever Peter happens to give him an opportunity.

Peter nods, swallowing, stomach still uncomfortably in knots, the adrenaline starting again at the reminder of his nightmares. 

Gamora sighs, pulls away for a moment to dig a bottle of water out of one of their bags and holds it out to him. “Drink. Then talk to me.”

The thought of putting anything else in his stomach at the moment is vaguely repulsive, but once he manages to get past the first tiny sip, it definitely helps. Gamora knows him, knows that anxiety makes him feel sick, and knows exactly how to make it better. 

He finishes half of the bottle before putting the cap back and clearing his throat. “Yeah, so. Last night was rough. Obviously. Sorry I kept you up.”

This time she surprises him, though, shaking her head. “You didn’t.”

“Gamora--”

“You _didn’t_ ,” she repeats. “I kept myself up. I wasn’t trying to sleep.”

“Gamora,” he says again. “You need sleep. You’re still healing.”

“I am fine,” she says, holding his gaze, as if hoping she can make him see past the shadows, and _into_ , her eyes by sheer force of will. She probably does think she’s fine, physically, but her body is still wracked by the occasional bout of shivers, getting cold a lot easier than she normally does. “I don’t need as much sleep as you.”

He’s well aware of this. It’s an oft-repeated refrain of hers. She still needs _some_. She hadn’t gotten any in the Stone, apparently hadn’t needed to, or _couldn’t_ , for what was days to her body but years to her soul and now --

“Peter?” Gamora’s voice jars him out of his own head again, a hand on his arm. 

“I’m fine,” he says automatically, giving his head a shake for good measure. “I just--why? Why wouldn’t you let yourself sleep?”

He sees her throat work, sees the hesitation in her eyes as she seems to decide whether to answer, how much to say. He desperately wants her to trust him, to talk to him like she’s been doing for years, but she’s still holding something back. 

“Just--what I told you last night,” she says at last. “I do not want to wake up and realize this was all a dream.”

His heart breaks at that, though he still has the feeling that it isn’t everything, might not even be close. Then again, he thinks, maybe he’s been deluding himself about how much she’s been sharing. Maybe she’s never opened up entirely, and maybe he’s been misreading her all along, assuming that because she’s shared _some_ things, he’s been privy to all her secrets, all her most vulnerable thoughts. She’d never told him about the Soul Stone, after all. Not about its existence, not about Thanos’s quest to find it. Not about the possibility that she might need to protect it with her life.

“Gamora,” he says finally, carefully. He’s pretty sure it’s a bad idea to bring up this conversation--ever, but particularly now--but suddenly he can’t _not_ know. “When did _you_ learn where the Soul Stone was?”

“Thanos charged me with finding it,” says Gamora. “A couple of years before he’d managed to trace the Power stone to Morag.” 

She’s studiously avoiding his eyes now, which is paradoxically both unnerving and reassuring--It’s clear that she’s lying, and he can tell, just like he’s always been able to. At least, he’s pretty sure he’s always been able to.

“Okay,” says Peter. “But that’s not what I asked. When did _you_ learn where it was? It was more recent than that, wasn’t it?”

“Not _that_ recently,” she says on a heavy sigh. She’s quiet for so long that he’s considering pressing again, though he feels bad, when she mercifully continues of her own accord. “I got close, when I was first given the task. I knew I was close. So I stopped looking.”

“Because you didn’t want to succeed,” he says, not really a question. 

She nods. “I didn’t want Thanos to find it. and I knew...and _he_ knew...that I’m a terrible liar. I wanted to be able to honestly tell him I didn’t find it.”

He winces; he’s teased her before about what a bad liar she is. Always in an affectionate way, because it is adorable how bad she is at it, but if that trait is always associated with Thanos in her mind…

He files that away as something to possibly apologize for later, though, because he doesn’t want to derail her explanation. 

“But you _did_ find it,” he prompts. 

“Yes,” she says, picking at an imaginary thread on her pants. “Later… Shortly before we met. After he sent me and Nebula to work for Ronan.” 

“Okay,” says Peter, taking that in. She sounds sincere, though clearly reluctant to talk about any of this. He thinks that he believes her, though the niggling fear that's started working its way into the back of his mind doesn't want to stop--that she kept this from him, didn't trust him with it, that perhaps she's never trusted him as much as he thought. 

“Peter?” she says, as if on cue, touching his cheek again. “Are you all right? You should have some more water.”

“You never told me,” he says finally, because he doesn't think he can just get over that. It's part of what's been haunting him, much as he's loath to admit it. 

“Peter,” she sighs, and this time his name sounds nearly pained on her lips, an odd sort of plea. “I never told you a lot of Thanos’ secrets. You know that.”

“I know.” He bites his lip until he feels like he can speak without bursting into tears. “I _know_ there’s always gonna be some stuff you keep secret, or that’s between you and Nebula or something. I get that. But you...you _knew_ you might have to--that you’d feel like you needed to...to try to sacrifice yourself so he wouldn’t find out about the Stone. You just carried that with you for _years_ and never told me, and then you asked me to--”

He cuts himself off, both because he needs another minute to stave off the tears and because he regrets going down that road; he’s not mad at her for _that_ part. He knows how desperate she must have been to ask that of him, and he meant what he said that first night after he brought her back: he wants her to be able to trust him with everything, including that. 

That’s the thing, though: she’s supposed to trust him. 

She sighs, pulling away and shifting back a bit toward the other seat. For a moment he thinks that she’s about to shut this whole thing down, conversation over, slam the too-familiar facade right back into place. It’s probably what he deserves for bringing all of this up when she’s still so vulnerable, when she’s just freaking admitted to him that she was too afraid to even let herself sleep. But then she meets his eyes again and he realizes that she isn’t finished, just putting space between them so that she can search his face. And to make him focus, probably. 

“I did tell you,” she says finally, her jaw tight. “I have told you many times that I feared Thanos would come between us. That he would use you against me, or that you would lose me to him.”

That’s true, and there’s no denying it. As long as he’s known Gamora, he’s also known that she feared Thanos more than anything else in the galaxy. She’s made him promise time and again that he wouldn’t face Thanos himself, that he wouldn’t try to protect her if it came to that. He’s gone along with it because she hasn’t given him a choice, because she’s been more adamant about that than anything else. Still, he’s always assumed that it was fear and trauma talking, that if the proverbial shit really hit the fan, they’d find a way to win, like always. Never at any point during the past four years has he imagined that her absolute certainty about losing her life to Thanos one day was because she’d intended to give it up herself.

“You didn’t tell me that you’d ask me to--” He breaks off, still can’t say it.

“Imagine that I had,” says Gamora, her voice steadier now, unapologetic. “Imagine that I had asked it of you four years ago. Imagine that you’d had to live with it, indefinitely. What would it have done to you, Peter?”

“It would’ve been horrible,” he whispers, words coming with effort. The idea of living with that possibility for years, when he could barely handle it for two hours, is one that he tries to shake out of his head as soon as it comes. “But… _God,_ Mora, you shouldn’t have had to deal with that on your own.” 

“Yes, I should have,” she says immediately. “I never wanted to ask that of you, Peter. Bad enough I had to do it at all. If I’d made you live with that possibility for years…” She trails off, the strength and conviction she’s been speaking with suddenly wavering. “I’d never forgive myself.” 

The way she says it, it sounds more like _I don’t forgive myself._

“Hey,” he says gently, reaching over to touch her arm. “I don’t blame you for that, Gamora, I _want_ you to trust me with stuff like that, even the horrible stuff. I just want to—understand.” 

“I do trust you,” she says vehemently. “It was never about whether I trusted you. I trust you with my life. More. I just don’t want to _hurt_ you.” 

“I know you trust me with your life,” says Peter, sighing. That’s kind of the point, isn’t it? Not only does she trust him with her life, she trusts him with ending it. With basically being her executioner. The thought of her knowing that, of believing it would come to that eventually, is sickening. The images of Knowhere are threatening to overwhelm him yet again, and he curls his fingers into a fist, not quite pressing on his injured palm, but allowing the ache of movement to ground him. He doesn’t know what he’s going to do when it’s fully healed and he doesn’t have that option anymore.

“I’m sorry,” Gamora says miserably, looking down at her lap, hands twisted together in a white-knuckled grasp. “I’m sorry. I’ve been so selfish.”

He blinks, stunned despite himself, despite all the anger and bitterness he’s still feeling. “Gamora. Baby. You were willing to give your _life_ for the good of the universe. How can you possibly think you’re selfish?”

She shakes her head, tries to say something else and momentarily can’t. Grabbing the half-empty water bottle, she drains the rest of it in one long swallow, then crushes the plastic into a little ball with one hand. “Not that. Us.”

For a moment all he can do is choke. “You mean--our relationship?”

“Yes,” she whispers. “That I allowed you to love me, knowing that I would possibly have to give my life one day.”

“ _Gamora_.” Overwhelmed, he slides to the edge of his seat and gently grasps her shoulders, pulling her in for a hug. It’s an awkward angle but she thankfully lets him; sometimes when she gets in a particularly self-loathing mood, she won’t even let him touch her, feeling undeserving of any physical comfort. 

Her arms are hesitant as they slide around him, her neck stiff when she lets her head rest on his shoulder, but she _does_ it. 

“Loving you,” he says, soft but vehement, “is the best thing I’ve ever felt. The best experience of my life. It wouldn’t have mattered if you’d told me about that the second we met, a month in, a year, I would _never_ want to change a thing.” 

“I know—you wouldn’t want to change,” she says, like every word costs a great deal of effort, that special tone she gets when she’s holding back tears. “But to let you love me in the _first place_ —“ 

“You couldn’t have stopped me from loving you,” he says, cutting her off before she can go even farther down that road. “I was gone for you about five minutes after we met.” 

“Before I’d even stopped trying to kill you?” she asks, though it’s far from the first time they’ve had this conversation. She’s shivering, he realizes, or she would be if she wasn’t holding every muscle in her body so painfully taut. As it is, he can still feel the tremors running through her, wishes he had a blanket to wrap around her or _something_ , though the rational part of him knows it would probably make no difference.

“Yep,” says Peter, falling back on the familiar words in the absence of anything else to do for her. “Pretty much from the moment you kicked me in the face. No, wait, earlier. Maybe when you punched me in the junk? Actually no, before that too.” There isn’t a single bit of sarcasm in it, though he really _doesn’t_ know which exact moment he fell for her. In hindsight, he’s pretty sure he can’t recall any time when he wasn’t hopelessly in love with her. 

“I never wanted to hurt you,” she says softly, her tone utterly broken, though she still steadfastly refuses to let herself cry. “All I ever wanted was to protect you from being hurt. To protect you from _him._ And now--”

“ _Stop_ ,” he interrupts, unable to stand hearing her sound so defeated. “Baby, please. Please stop. I’m the one who thought we could beat him.”

She shakes her head against his shoulder. “You didn’t know him, you couldn’t truly understand. And I never _wanted_ you to understand. You should never have had to learn what he’s truly capable of.”

“ _Was_ ,” he says firmly. “What he _was_ capable of. He’s gone now.”

“That still seems too good to be true,” she whispers. 

“It’s true,” he says, though he knows what she means. “Believe it, Mora, he’s gone. And please, believe me when I tell you that getting to be with you, even if it was just for five minutes, would be worth a lifetime of pain. I wouldn’t trade it for anything.”

She makes a little noise against him, like there’s a sob stuck in her throat because she refuses to let it out. “I don’t want a lifetime of pain for you, Peter.”

“Well, it’s a good thing you’re back then,” he says as calmly as he can, doing everything he can to push away the thought of what his life would have been like without her, if she _hadn’t_ come back. He wonders if he’ll ever be free from that fear again. 

“I suppose,” she says noncommittally, which makes his heart start pounding even faster. 

“Gamora,” he breathes, then has to take a few moments to steady himself, to make the words come past the fear that's trying to strangle him. “Do you--not want to be back?” It's hard to imagine that, with what she's told him of her experience in the Stone, but there's that odd hesitation in her voice…

“I do,” she says immediately, much stronger again in her conviction. “Of course I do. It's just--" Then she breaks off, shaking her head. 

“Just?” Peter asks gently, curling a lock of hair around his finger, as if that might ground them both somehow. 

“I worry that it will never be enough,” she says very softly, clearly with effort. “That _I_ will never be enough to mend what I've done to you.”

“ _Mora_.” He pulls her even closer, wanting to wrap her up in warmth and love until she understands. She ends up half in his lap, the angle a little awkward, but neither of them tries to change it. “How could you possibly say that? You are always enough, _more_ than enough. You are _everything_.”

“But I hurt you--”

He shakes his head. “Thanos hurt me. Thanos hurt _us_. None of it is your fault, Gamora. I understand why...you did what you did. Why you didn’t tell me sooner.” It still hurts a little bit, irrationally. He truly does understand, but he can’t help feeling like he should have known somehow, been able to protect her. 

“You would never have gotten mixed up with Thanos if it weren’t for me,” she whispers, fingers trembling where they grip the back of his shirt. 

“And you would’ve never had to deal with Ego if it weren’t for me.” He can feel her sigh before he’s even finished, familiar with this argument. 

“That is different. You didn’t know Ego, you had no idea what he was before you met him. I _knew_ Thanos.” 

“I don't care,” says Peter, the hurt and bitterness starting to flare into irrational anger, though not at her, of course. He wants to punch Thanos again, wants to hurt him in every way imaginable, wants to imprison him in a hell worse than the Stone, then rescue him momentarily only to have the satisfaction of condemning him all over again. “I don't _care._ We're alive and he's not and I'd do it all over again! I'd do it a hundred more times. All of it. Even if I never got you back, I'd never want to change any of what came before.”

“You don't know that,” she snaps, the sudden vitriol in her tone making him recoil a bit, though not far enough to let go of her. 

Peter blinks, shocked. “What?”

“You don't know what you would want,” says Gamora, “if things had ended differently. All you know is what you think right now.”

“I--" he sputters, struggling to follow her logic and why it's so upsetting to her. “Okay, but I think I know hypothetical me better than you do.”

She opens her mouth, closes it again, a muscle in her jaw jumping visibly. “Fine. Believe what you would like.”

“Fine,” he shoots back, and then something breaks inside of him, anger and hurt tipping over into incredulity until it's all he can do to bite back a wave of hysterical laughter. “Gamora. We're here. We’re alive. Are we really gonna fight over what hypothetical me would hypothetically want in circumstances that don't exist?”

She relaxes slightly against him, but it’s forced, he can tell by the lingering tension in her shoulders, the way she’s not quite settling against him. “I suppose it is pointless.” 

“Exactly,” he says, trying to be encouraging, though her stubborn stiffness worries him. “C’mon, let’s—listen to some music. Knight Rider?” 

“Certainly, Mr. Star-Lord.” 

The radio turns on, the song another one he vaguely remembers but has trouble placing what the exact circumstances were when he heard it; probably just in a different car, on a different radio, a long time ago. 

_A time to build up, a time to break down_  
A time to dance, a time to mourn  
A time to cast away stones, a time to gather stones together 

“You choose this song on purpose, Knight Rider?” he asks mildly as he keeps listening to the lyrics. 

“I have no control over the songs that are played on the radio,” he answers. “Merely the station.” 

“Hmm. Nice evasion.” 

“I’m sure I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Knight Rider says, and it’s only at that moment that Peter notices they’re not on the highway anymore. 

“Are we here?” he asks, unsure how to feel about that. He knows the conversation is probably over, that Gamora’s opened up far more in the past few minutes than she has in her entire time back combined. He knows he shouldn’t push her, not when he’s feeling so unsteady himself, not when they’re both teetering on the edge of a meltdown so big he’s not sure they’d ever be able to get back on solid ground. Yet he also _knows_ there’s still more to come, still more that she hasn’t told him, or she wouldn’t be so goddamn tense. He’s not sure he’s ready to just move on, walk into a museum and try to act like they’re a totally normal couple on a totally normal vacation. Unfortunately he’s also not sure that they’ve got any better options at the moment.

“We will arrive at our destination shortly,” says Knight Rider. “Unless you would prefer a change of plans?”

“Like what?” asks Peter, wondering if the car’s somehow managed to read his mind. Gamora’s started to relax ever so slightly more, the way he’s noticed she often does when he puts on music. He runs a hand over her back again, rocking a bit to the melody.

“For instance,” says Knight Rider, “I could provide the locations of local psychotherapists.” If cars could shrug casually, he would be right now.

Peter stills, choking a bit. “What? No! No, I mean. We’re good. We’re the most good.”

“In that case,” says Knight Rider, making an abrupt left turn, which causes another car to honk. He ignores it, apparently unperturbed.

“Um,” says Peter, glancing out the window and realizing that they’re at what appears to be a fast food drive through. He might not have been to Earth in a while, but he’s still pretty sure this isn’t a museum. “What are we doing?”

“More ice cream!” Knight Rider says brightly.

Peter groans, but he has to laugh a bit too, oddly touched. “Is this your way of telling us that we’re a mess?”

“Perhaps!” the car says brightly, then automatically slides down the window as he pulls up to the speaker for ordering. “Two hot fudge sundaes, please!”

“Um,” says the voice on the monitor. “Did your car just talk?”

“Yep,” Peter drawls, before Knight Rider can respond. “He’s got good taste, though. I’m not gonna disagree.”

“That’ll be $5.45 at the first window,” says the voice, already sounding bored again.

Gamora is shaking against him again, but he’s pretty sure it’s laughter that she’s holding back now. He can deal with that, he thinks. Burying his nose in her hair, he closes his eyes for a moment and tries to breathe in how lucky they are.


	13. Chapter 13

Peter’s gotta hand it to Knight Rider: the museum is exactly as he described. In fact, it is _so_ exactly as described that, when they first pull up to the almost entirely empty parking lot, for a moment all they can do is stare. 

“We have arrived,” Knight Rider tells them. 

“We noticed.” 

“You have yet to exit the vehicle.”

“I’m a little afraid that thing is gonna attack me,” Peter says, only mostly joking. 

Gamora snorts. She’s already gotten over the museum’s strange appearance and gone back to licking the last remains of chocolate syrup off her plastic spoon. 

He forces his eyes back to the building in front of them. This is no time for him to get _distracted_. 

It truly would be better described as a small house than a museum, just as Knight Rider had said. Peter’s pretty sure it _is_ a converted house, and a poorly converted one at that. There’s still a regular mailbox outside, and the small parking lot next to it is uneven gravel with no actual marked spots. In lieu of a proper sign, there’s a banner hanging up over the front door that reads:

_Cryptozoology Museum: Seek the Truth_.

The best part, though, is the statue that takes up nearly the entire front porch: what looks like the product of a really ripped dude having a baby with an owl. 

“I don’t believe it’s capable of hurting you,” Gamora says, dumping her plastic bowl and spoon into the waste receptacle compartment Knight Rider opens without being prompted. 

“I’m definitely grateful that thing isn’t real.” He shivers. It wouldn’t be so bad, he thinks, if it weren’t for those freaky red eyes.

“I advise you not to say that inside the building,” Knight Rider says. “The people who believe in these creatures tend to take it quite seriously. At least, according to all the information I’ve read about it. Which is all available information.” 

“ _All_ of it?” asks Peter, surprised despite himself. To be fair, he has no idea how much actual information exists on these things, but he's willing to bet that finding and processing it comprehensively would probably take most if not all of a human lifetime. 

“Yes,” Knight Rider repeats. “All of it. Naturally.”

“And how long did that take?” he presses, curious despite himself. 

“Roughly twenty-seven minutes and thirty-one seconds,” says Knight Rider. 

“Roughly,” Gamora parrots dryly, though she doesn't comment any further. 

“Okay,” Peter allows, trying to decide whether or not he thinks that's a substantial amount of time for a Terran program. Probably it is. “But why?”

“To better assist you, of course,” says Knight Rider, then pauses as if expecting thanks. When Peter fails to provide any, he continues, “And also, you and Ms. Gamora appeared to be having a conversation of a rather personal nature.”

“Awwww,” says Peter. “Did we make you uncomfortable with our squishy human feelings?”

“The last time I checked,” says Knight Rider, “only _your_ emotions would be classified as such.”

Gamora is smirking now, not even bothering to try and hide it, for which Peter is grateful. He's about to ask her whether she's ready to get out of the car when she reaches out abruptly and runs her thumb across his lower lip. 

He gapes at her for a moment. “Uh--"

“You had chocolate on your face,” she says matter-of-factly. “It's gone now.” 

Then she delicately sucks the bit of chocolate off her thumb, meeting his gaze all the while, clearly amused by his expression. For a moment, he almost forgets where they are and why, focused entirely on the way her lips -- 

“Mr. Star-Lord,” Knight Rider says, sounding mildly concerned. “My sensors indicate a rapid rise in your heart rate. Are you all right?” 

Gamora covers her mouth with her hand to smother sudden laughter while Peter glares at the dashboard. It’s not like Gamora can’t hear his heartbeat anyway, but damn, he never expected to be called out by a _car_.

“Nope!” he says, voice unnaturally high-pitched. He clears his throat. “I’m fine. We’re all fine. Ready to go in?” he asks Gamora. 

“Are _you_?” she counters, a teasing little smile on her face. 

“As I’ll ever be,” he says, tentatively optimistic. He pats the dash. “We’ll be back soon, as long as nothing in there eats us.”

Both of their doors open for them. “Enjoy your strange taste in entertainment.”

Gamora climbs out and stretches, bending back and tipping her chin up toward the sky. Peter catches himself staring yet again, nearly gets his fingers caught in the door as Knight Rider closes it. Clearing his throat, he twists his upper body a few times, trying to shake off the weird fog of exhaustion and rapidly ebbing adrenaline. He's starting to feel a little bit punchy. 

“Come on,” says Gamora, taking off resolutely toward the building. 

Peter's distracted enough that he doesn't react right away, has to jog a few steps to catch up. By the time he does, she’s got the door to the place open, no hesitation this time. 

Following her inside, he finds himself blinking, eyes struggling to adjust to the comparatively dim lighting in the building. The place has a distinctive musty smell to it; he tries to fight down a sneeze but it overtakes him. 

“Well hey there!” comes a voice from the corner, making him jump. “I'm Chuck!”

A man comes hobbling over from what must be the gift shop portion of the museum, judging by the sparse racks of merchandise in front of it. 

“Hi, Chuck,” Peter says, putting on his ‘schmoozing a mark’ voice that he always uses when he’s not yet sure what to make of someone. “I’m Peter. This is Gamora.”

Chuck could be a terribly unhealthy fifty or an extremely sprightly ninety, it’s impossible to tell. He’s dressed like a stereotypical farmer, down to the overalls with one of the shoulder straps hanging down, and a t-shirt under it that probably used to be white. He’s missing about half his teeth, and probably all of his hair underneath the “National Cryptid Society” baseball cap he’s wearing. 

He’s showing no particular interest in Gamora, though, and he seems friendly enough, so Peter hesitantly puts him in the “harmless” category. 

“Howdy Peter and Gamora!” he yells, even though they’re scarcely five feet apart now. “Welcome to my museum!” 

“Um, thank you,” Gamora says. She seems as stunned by this man as he is. 

“It’s a--nice place,” Peter says, though what he can see of it so far is mostly large statues of strange-looking creatures, photographs littering the walls, and a lot of glass display cases with items he can’t make out inside. 

“Thank you, young man!” he shouts. “I see you two have traveled a great distance to search for the Unbelieved!” 

“Um,” says Peter, fighting the urge to cover his ears at the sheer volume of the man's voice. That and the smell of stale tobacco smoke not-so-subtly emanating from his person make for a combination that's distracting him in a whole other way from before. “We’re from Missouri.”

Chuck looks them up and down, gaze settling on Gamora for a moment before coming back to address Peter. “She ain't. She's an alien if I ever saw one.”

Beside him, he feels Gamora tense, moves instinctively to step in front of her protectively. He's pretty damn sure either one of them could take Chuck down if it came to that, but he'd rather not put that responsibility on her shoulders. He knows she feels bad enough about the asshole in New York. 

“That a problem?” Peter asks, letting Chuck hear the challenge in his voice. 

Chuck just laughs, though, showing off the rest of his impressively yellowed teeth. “Naw. Who cares about aliens anymore? Everybody _knows_ they exist. Shit, couple nights ago they showed one right on that Fox News.”

He has no idea what that is, but he sets it aside for the moment. “Wait, really?” 

“Yeah, that Thor fella,” Chuck says as if unimpressed, which earns him a point in Peter’s mind. Not that he’s still intimidated by Thor or anything. That would be absurd. “Talkin’ bout some fight or whatnot.” 

Peter and Gamora exchange a glance. “You mean the whole—potentially galaxy ending fight that happened a few days ago?” 

Chuck shrugs. “Like I said, I don’t care for that alien stuff. I was in Winton Woods all last week looking for the Loveland Frogman.” 

Well, he supposes that’s better than him caring that Gamora’s an alien. 

“Did you find it?” she asks, trying to be polite. 

“Did I _find_ it?” Chuck laughs, or at least Peter thinks it’s a laugh; it sounds more like a scream. “Thing damn near ate me alive! Had me in its hypnotic gaze, following it back to its lair like a lamb to slaughter! A zombie tadpole’d be standing here talking to ya if my buddies hadn’ta found me when they did.” 

“Your buddies?” asks Peter, wondering abruptly how anyone who yells so damn much could have friends. Then again, maybe they all have a thing for yelling. 

“Yeah!” shouts Chuck. “My team! Monster huntin’ buddies. They’s like family to me!”

Abruptly Peter realizes: Chuck reminds him of a Ravager, if Ravagers were old Terran men who hunted monsters instead of money. He swallows down that thought. “Yeah, okay. That's cool.”

“We call ourselves the Beasty Boys!” says Chuck, grinning like that's the best idea ever. 

Peter frowns, that name stirring something in his memory, though he can't immediately place it. After a moment, he decides to take his best guess. “Like...the band? Are you guys a band?”

Chuck laughs uproariously again, and Peter doesn't miss how Gamora backs away a bit, perhaps equal parts due to the sound and the smell. “Not the band! We spells it with a y! And it's ‘cause we hunt beasts!” He claps Peter on the shoulder, laughing even harder. 

“Right,” says Peter, bristling a bit at the laughter, which is clearly at his expense. “I think we got that part.”

Suddenly Gamora’s hand is on his back, a supportive, comforting gesture. “Is the rest of your museum open, Chuck?” she asks, rather pointedly. 

“‘Course it is!” He waves his arm out, gesturing to the archway behind him that leads to more of the building. “You folks go ‘head and have a look around. Holler if you need me!” 

“That’s a dumb name,” Peter mutters petulantly as they walk into the next room. 

“What?” Gamora asks, hand still resting on his back, her touch soothing his annoyance. “Frogman or Beasty Boys?”

“Both.” They stop short at the first display they come to. “But _Grassman_ might be worse.”

They’re standing in front of a glass case, with a banner over the top reading ‘Bigfoot, Sasquatch, Grassman: Same Creature, Or Not Even the Same Species?’ There’s a figurine of what appears to be an especially long-haired ape sitting on top of the case, about the size of Groot when he was two. Inside the case are an assortment of items labeled ‘Evidence,’ including a couple rather large casings of footprints as well as, for some reason -- 

“Is that feces?” Gamora asks, making a face. 

He bends closer to examine it, sure there could be no reason for something like that to be in a museum. But that’s sure what it looks like. “I guess that’s what ‘scat’ means.” 

Gamora leans down beside him, her look of disgust becoming more intense. “I can smell it.”

Peter glances at her, mildly horrified. “Through the glass?’

She nods. “Lots of interesting things to smell in here.”

He contemplates the object again for a moment, then shakes his head. “Does look like the one Drax clogged the Benatar’s plumbing with a couple weeks ago. Think he’s Bigfoot?”

She grimaces, swatting his shoulder lightly. “ _Peter._ ”

“What?” Peter asks innocently. “I mean, he’s big, he’s got feet, he looks….kinda humanoid. And he’d be really good at camouflaging in the trees!”

“Well,” says Gamora, pointing to the fine print below the banner, “according to this, Bigfoot and Grassman are not the same creature. So if this… _scat_...belongs to a Grassman then...you know what? This conversation is too disgusting. Nevermind.”

He sighs, shaking his head in mock disappointment, though in truth he’s still enjoying her reaction, particularly the fact that he managed to get her to engage in that much contemplation of poop. “Fine, fine.”

She wanders away from the case, toward the next display, and Peter follows, mind wandering too.

“Can you believe Thor got an interview on the news?” he grumbles under his breath. “Show off. Just couldn’t resist flaunting those big muscles and that big axe. Well guess what? Nobody was impressed.”

“I’m sure plenty of people were impressed,” she says mildly, focused on examining a blurry photograph of what looks like a hairy Orloni. “Even the other Avengers are impressed by Thor.”

“Not as impressed as you guys were when you met him,” Peter mutters. He traces his finger along the glass, trying to appear as casual about this conversation as her. 

She glances at him over her shoulder, a gleam in her eye like she’s about to tease him, but then she frowns when she gets a look at him. “Do you really dislike Thor?”

“No,” he admits, not quite meeting her eyes. “It’s not that. I just think it’s dumb how much he has to show off, that’s all.”

She’s not buying it for a second. “Is this because Rocket and Drax said you’re not muscular?” 

“They said more than that.” He knows he’s pouting, well aware that this is wildly unimportant in the face of everything that’s happened since then, but for some reason he just can’t shake this. The way they’d all looked at Thor when they first saw him, as if they’d never seen someone so strong… 

“Peter,” Gamora sighs, putting her hand on his arm. He may or may not flex it. “You know you’re muscular. And even if you weren’t, you have to know that we’d love you no matter what, right?”

“Yeah, sure,” he sighs, pulling away from her, though her touch undeniably feels good. He knows that she’s right, and that he’s being silly, and yet…

“Peter?” she repeats, following.

“Hey, look!” he says brightly, stopping at the next display case. In truth he’s only been feigning knowing what it is, and he has to pause awkwardly while he takes in its contents and the banner on top. “It’s--A mothman! I’ve always wanted to see one of these!”

Gamora gives him a skeptical look. He can _see_ the moment when she decides to humor him, but he appreciates it all the same. “A what man?”

“Moth,” he repeats. “Mothman. You know, like not a butterfly but a moth. As a man.”

She shakes her head. “No, I don’t know.”

And of course she doesn’t, which he should know, because butterflies are one of those rare organisms he’s never seen anywhere else in the galaxy. Similar things, sure, but not the same. And even he’s not sure he remembers how that’s different from a moth. 

He glances back inside the case, skimming the writing. “Well this is a person, basically. With wings. And um...maybe psychic abilities? It warns people about bad things.”

She’s quiet for a moment, then nods curtly. “Well, I suppose it’s been very busy lately.”

He chokes on air, stomach dropping. “Gamora!”

“It was a joke,” she says wryly, and not entirely convincingly. 

“Right,” he says, still tense but deciding to return the favor and humor her. He casts around for something to distract from _this_ distraction attempt and this time lands on something that actually does amuse him. 

“Hey, look at this.” There’s a large poster on the wall of a creature that looks like a giant snake with the head of an elephant. Above it is a plaque that reads ‘Grootslang.’ “Do you think there’s any relation?”

She lets out a little laugh as she takes it in. “I doubt it.” 

“Are you sure?” Peter asks, reading the info card underneath it. “This says it lives in the ‘Bottomless Pit.’ Sounds like Groot when he’s eating candy.”

“Hmm, still no,” Gamora says, but she sounds a lot more genuinely interested than she did in the Mothman. “ _That_ one, though…” She gestures to another picture a few down, of a large tree with unnaturally long and bendy branches, labeled ‘Carnivorous Tree.’ “There might be a relation there.”

“Oh, yeah,” he laughs, inspecting it. “That’s definitely Groot with bedhead.” 

Gamora’s smiling as she looks at the picture, fond and a bit sad, and Peter realizes how much he misses the little guy. 

“We should send him a picture of this,” he says suddenly, pulling out his phone. “I know I saw a camera feature on here.”

She moves to stand beside him, one hand on his elbow as she looks over his shoulder at the phone. 

“You know, Groot would probably think we were hopelessly uncool for this,” says Peter, as he fights with the phone’s selections. He can just hear the taunts about being old and incompetent with technology. 

“And he would love us all the same,” Gamora says mildly. 

Peter sighs, pausing for a moment. It takes a concerted effort to think about what cameras look like on Earth, then find the symbol that roughly approximates that shape. Finally, though, he's rewarded with the function he wants. Holding up the phone, he experiments with zooming in and out before taking a few shots of the poster. 

“What do you think?” he asks Gamora, swiping through the pictures eagerly. 

“Good,” she agrees. “But wait.”

Before he can say anything else, she moves to stand in front of the poster, posing with her fingers up to the thing like it really is Groot and she's about to tame his bedhead. Her smile is sweet and a little cheesy, the whole thing so damn maternal that it makes Peter's heart ache. 

“Are you going to take the picture or not?” Gamora asks, and he realizes how long he’s just been standing there staring. 

“Oh, yeah, hang on!” He snaps a couple, then zooms in on her face and takes one like that, too, capturing that smile. He’s gotta figure out how to set screensavers on these things. 

“Okay, got it,” he says, lowering the phone. “Sorry, you were just too adorable. You distracted me.”

She makes a face and pokes him in the side. “You take that back.”

“You are!” he giggles. “You know you’re adorable.” 

“Warriors are not adorable,” she says loftily, then turns around and walks further down the row of pictures, presumably to try to hide the smile she can’t seem to repress. 

“You keep telling yourself that.” 

The phone’s messaging feature is thankfully easy to find, though admittedly that’s only because he’d received a message yesterday, presumably from Rocket: _Knew you’d never be able to figure this out unless I sent you one first._

Peter’s pretty sure he means _keep in touch_. 

Having found Rocket’s message, it's easy enough to figure out how to attach the photo of the poster. He starts with just the one, writing a caption that says _found Groot, tough hair day, buddy_. 

For the next few moments he stares at the phone, wondering how long it takes these messages to go through. He can only hope it's faster than the ones on the holo. When nothing happens, he flips back to the camera feature, backtracks to the Grassman case, and takes a picture of the poop. 

_Drax forgot to flush again,_ he writes on this caption, and grins to himself as he hits send for a second time. 

When he looks back up, Gamora is watching him from across the room, rolling her eyes. 

Peter gives her an enthusiastic thumbs up. “Just sharing the most memorable parts of this experience!”

Before she can respond, the phone vibrates in his hand, making him jump. There's a message from a different number, which gives him pause for a moment. When he clicks it, though, he finds a picture of Groot's face on the screen, looking thoroughly unamused. 

Shaking his head, Peter attaches the picture of Gamora, then writes _Mom says hi...and don't give her that face._

The next reply is another picture of him, this time with the vines on his head deliberately messed up, ruffled and sticking out every which way. He’s smiling, though. 

Peter grins and walks over to show Gamora. She’s wandered into the sea creatures section, which doesn’t surprise him one bit; she loves water. They’d purchased a bathtub for their quarters on the Quadrant, and Peter sometimes jokes that she loves it more than she loves him. 

“Groot appreciates the grooming,” he says, holding the phone out to her. She glances away from the large Kraken statue she’d been examining and smiles fondly at the pictures, tracing her finger over the screen. 

“He is a good kid,” she says with sudden reverence. “A good person.”

He nods, moving so he can see the pictures again, too. “He is. He was really brave through all this. Not that that’s surprising; no way our kid is anything but.” 

“He was downright reckless, at times,” she says, sending a shiver through him at the reminder of how much she knows. 

“Yeah, well. He’s gotta get something from Drax… Speaking of.” 

Another message comes through from another new number, this time reading: _Drax wanted me to tell you that he accidentally misplaced his phone, but that he could put the sample in that picture to shame._

Gamora makes a face. “Please tell him not to try.”

Peter types that quickly, though he can't help giggling to himself over the thought of Drax asking Mantis to take and send a picture of his shit. Not waiting for a response, he takes another picture, this time of the Grassman himself. 

_Look,_ he writes. _It's the pooper himself. And by that I mean Drax._

_That is not me,_ comes the response a moment later. Apparently Mantis has just handed over the phone to him. Peter can't exactly blame her. _That is a picture of a Terran._

“Um,” says Peter, holding the phone up to show Gamora the reply. “Is that what he thinks I look like?”

“To be fair,” she says lightly, “sometimes you do a little.”

“Hey!” He gives her his most affronted look. 

She smiles sweetly. “When you skip shaving for a few days.”

“You don’t like my Sasquatch look?” he asks, mostly-pretend-pouting. 

“I like _all_ your looks.” 

She sounds sincere, but the insecure part of him that _wasn’t_ mostly kidding bubbles to the surface before he can stop it. “Are you sure? Because I could shave more, or less, grow it out more--”

“Peter,” she interrupts, looking at him searchingly. “You’ve worn your hair the same way for four years. Why would you change it now? Why would I _want_ you to change it?”

“You wouldn’t,” he says, shrugging and trying to smirk. “I was just messing around.”

She raises her eyebrows like she doesn’t believe him for a second and cups his face with one hand, rubbing his stubble affectionately. “Well, I don’t want you to change a thing about yourself, messing around or not.”

“Oh, well. Okay than.” The smile that overtakes him is more genuine now, which seems to satisfy her.

“Good. Because I found Drax’s _actual_ cryptid.” She takes him by the hand to lead him to the other side of the room. 

“Okay--wait, his what?” 

“Cryptid,” she repeats, like it’s obvious. When he just stares at her blankly, she continues, “According to several plaques in this room, as well as Chuck’s hat, it’s what these creatures are called.” 

“Oh,” says Peter, feeling stupid for not having noticed. “Okay then.” He guesses that makes sense with the whole cryptozoology thing. 

“So I found Drax's,” Gamora continues, her enthusiasm contagious despite everything. 

“What is it?” he asks, glancing around the general vicinity but not seeing anything that reminds him of Drax. 

“This,” says Gamora, pointing to another poster, which actually shows a series of creatures. “An atmospheric beast.”

Peter blinks at it for a long moment, wondering what the connection is supposed to be. “Okay…”

“It can make itself invisible!” she says excitedly. 

He ought to be laughing, he thinks. Ought to be appreciating her cleverness. Instead he finds himself right back in that conversation on the Benatar, standing on the precipice of everything going wrong. _Swear to me on your mother_ and _the hand means stop_ and _I told you to go right_ and _where is Gamora_ and _I had to_ and --

“Peter. _Peter_!”

Gamora, here, real. Her hands are on his shoulders and her face is full of concern and fear. “Look at me, Peter. Breathe. Breathe.” 

He does, the sensation of air filling his lungs almost painful, but it clears his head. He hadn’t realized before that he’d been holding his breath. It takes a few more conscious inhalations before he’s present enough to muster a weak, fake smile. 

“Sorry, sorry,” he says, trying to brush it off. “That’s--yeah, that’s definitely Drax.” 

She ignores that, touching his cheek again. “Are you okay? Where did you go?” 

“I’m right here,” he says casually, taking a step away even though his skin suddenly feels cold without her touch. He fixes his eyes on the picture that happens to be next to the Drax creature, something called a Manticore, as if it’s the most fascinating thing he’s ever seen. “And now I’m over here.” 

“Peter,” Gamora sighs, stepping in between him and the picture of the Manticore. She rests her hands on her hips, clearly not in the mood to take any shit. “I thought we agreed that we weren’t going to do that.”

“Do what?” he asks in his most innocent tone, falling back on evasion without even thinking about it. “Look at cryptids? Because we definitely said that--” He breaks off, blows out a breath, forces himself to meet her eyes. “Sorry.”

“We said we weren’t going to hide things from each other,” says Gamora, taking both of his hands gently.

_And yet you still are,_ he thinks, but doesn’t say. That’s different. That has to be different, and even if it isn’t, he is not going to push her. 

He shakes his head. “Just--Drax talking about being invisible was--”

“Right after I asked you,” she finishes, looking momentarily stricken too. “Shit. I’m sorry.”

“Yeah,” he agrees. “Plus _atmospheric beast_ sounds more like a thing Thor would call himself.”

She looks at him like she’s examining him, which is a look that usually means whatever he’s said has just revealed more than he meant to, and she’s about to figure out exactly what that is. “What else aren’t you telling me?”

“What are you talking about?” he asks, despite her reminder from approximately ten seconds ago that he isn’t supposed to be hiding things. 

“You keep bringing up Thor,” she says. “This can’t all be just because you’re intimidated by his appearance.”

“There’s nothing to be intimidated by,” he mutters petulantly. “He’s not even--”

She cuts him off, ignoring that. “Did he say something to you? Did something happen?” She looks concerned again, probably preparing to take Knight Rider all the way back to the compound to kick some demigod ass on his behalf if he’s said anything to upset him. 

He really wishes it were that simple. 

“No, no,” he sighs. “He didn’t do anything. It’s just dumb stuff, okay?”

“Like what?” she implores. “Talk to me, Peter.”

“I'm--" He breaks off, thinks _I don't want to be a child._ But he knows the truth is that ignoring her request, insisting on hiding this from her, would be the worst thing he could do in this instance. For a moment he bites the inside of his lip, lets the pain ground him. “It's not about what Thor did. It's--what everyone else did when he showed up.”

“You mean Rocket commenting on your weight?” she asks. “I agree, that was crass at best.”

Peter shakes his head. Maybe that mattered in the moment, but in truth he's practically lost track of that detail in everything that followed. “No. I mean--how everyone just--I thought you guys respected me, okay? Like, at least to lead on jobs and stuff. I thought that was our agreement.”

“We do,” she says immediately, earnestly. “You're the captain.”

“Then why did Rocket pretend to be captain when he wanted to impress Thor?” asks Peter, aware that he sounds petulant. “Why did he just--take Groot and go? Why didn't Drax listen to me on Knowhere? Why didn't any of you--" He breaks off, throat tight, decides that he has to say the last part, much as he'd rather do anything else. “ _Why didn't you listen when I told you to go right?_ ”

Her face falls and he immediately regrets bringing this up; he knew he should’ve just kept this to himself, this is why he hasn’t been telling her, now he’s gone and hurt her with it, too. 

It’s too late now, though. She’s squeezing his hands and shaking her head, looking at him with eyes that are a lot more watery than they were a second ago. “ _Peter_ , please believe me: that had nothing to do with not respecting you, or trusting you.”

“Then what did it have to do with?” he whispers despite himself. 

“ _Protecting_ you,” she says, so much vehemence in her voice that he’s almost ready to believe her without even hearing the rest of her explanation. “I never wanted… You should never have had to face Thanos in the first place. I wasn’t about to let you throw yourself at him and get killed. Don’t act like that’s not what you were going to do.” 

He opens then closes his mouth, because of course she sees right through him. “So you threw _yourself_ at him instead?” 

“Yes,” she says firmly. “It was my fight. I needed to protect you from it… Or, I needed to try.” 

“And _I_ needed to protect _you,”_ he says, voice breaking. “It’s my job to protect you, all of you. And I failed.” 

“ _Your_ job?” she echoes, her own voice thick with the tears she still refuses to shed. “We’re a team, Peter. We're family. We protect each other.”

“Well that's all nice and good of you to say,” he snaps, bitterness spilling over despite the fact that the last thing he wants to do right now is fight with her, the last thing he wants to do is hurt her. And still he can't stop himself, has never been able to stop himself, not for his mother, not for Gamora, not for the entire fucking _universe._ “Except you didn't protect each other. Any of you. You were all just off doing whatever you wanted for yourselves and _everything_ fell apart.”

She opens her mouth, closes it again, sets her jaw before speaking. “It worked out. The only way it could have. You said that yourself.” The lack of conviction behind those words is palpable, and it makes his stomach churn. 

“Bullshit,” says Peter, aware and uncaring that he's contradicting himself. “You don't believe that. And even if you did, even if it's true, what am I supposed to--am I supposed to just _forget_ that none of you trust me in a crisis? I mean, maybe you're not wrong. Maybe I wouldn't either. But let's at least be clear about it.”” 

“How can you say I don’t trust you?” she whispers, voice quaking. “I trust you completely. But sometimes you do stupid things when you think you need to protect me.” 

“Oh, so now I’m stupid?” he blurts out.

“You _know_ that is not what I said!” She releases his hands, swipes angrily at her eyes. “But trying to get me out of the way so you could take on Thanos yourself was an incredibly reckless plan!” 

“Like _you_ doing the same wasn’t?” His voice breaks, fear and anger and regret bursting through. “Like Drax trying to do the same wasn’t? Rocket and Groot running off with some guy we just met wasn’t?” 

“Rocket and Drax are just like that sometimes,” she says desperately. “You know that. It doesn’t mean they don’t trust you, or respect you. It means sometimes their own issues get the better of them…of all of us. It was foolish of me to think I had a chance against Thanos. Foolish of me to wait so long to—“ 

“Please, don’t,” he breathes, his own desperation overtaking him again. He cups her face with unsteady hands, leans his forehead against hers. “Please don’t start that again.” 

“How can I not?” she counters, tears welling in her eyes again, though she continues to stubbornly blink them back. “How can I _not_ think of it when you're blaming yourself?”

“Because--" He opens his mouth, sputters for a moment. It's an undeniable quandary--he doesn't want her blaming herself or feeling guilty, but he doesn't want to let go of his own involvement either. “Because I don't want you to.”

Gamora gapes at him, her expression torn between frustration and disbelief. “Did you seriously just try _because I told you so_?”

He lets his hands fall away from her face to cross his arms, setting his jaw. “Yes. Yes I did. And you should listen. _Because I said so._ ”

She mirrors his posture, her hands on her hips. “And what if I do? Will _you_ listen to me and stop blaming yourself too?”

That’s a difficult thing to promise, and he thinks they’re both aware of it, but he _wants_ to be able to. It would be so nice to simply be able to believe her. It’s not like he thinks she’s _lying_ or anything, just that she’s too busy blaming herself to realize that he should’ve been able to protect them. He should’ve been a good enough leader that they _let_ him protect them. 

But they’re going to go around in circles with this argument if he doesn’t stop it. Besides, this hands-on-her-hips Gamora with the stern expression is reminding him an awful lot of how she looks when she tells Groot to put away the video games and go to sleep.

He bites his lip, suddenly unable to suppress a grin. Gamora’s hard expression falls, clearly surprised by this change. 

“Wait, wait!” he says, pulling his phone out again. “I wanna capture that Strict Gamora pose so I can send it to Groot and tell him to brush his vines.”

“Peter,” she repeats, which only makes her look more stern, more maternal. 

“Yes!” says Peter, snapping the picture. “Exactly like that!” He writes the caption quickly, sends the message before looking up to see her still regarding him with that expression. 

He stays silent for a moment, testing, waiting to see if she'll move on. Gamora just raises an eyebrow. 

He sighs. “What?”

“You didn't answer me.”

He gives her his best innocent look. “What was the question again?”

“ _Peter!_ ” Gamora throws up her hands. “If I agree to stop blaming myself, will you do the same?”

“Oh right!” he says immediately, feigning surprise. Of course he hasn't forgotten at all. He's just been hoping that maybe she would, that maybe there's still a scenario that allows her to forgive herself, lets him take all the blame. He sighs. “You see any self-forgiveness in this museum? ‘Cause I'm pretty sure it's a cryptid.”

Gamora’s shoulders loosen the tiniest bit, probably more from exasperation than amusement, but he’ll take it. 

“I’m not sure how one would begin to hunt for a concept.”

“That’s why it’s the ultimate cryptid. It would never be discovered.” 

She shakes her head, still mostly tense. This constant back-and-forth of denial and frustration is getting them nowhere, and though he’s far from ready to completely absolve himself, he is ready to do whatever he can to make _her_ feel better. 

“Okay,” he sighs. “I’ll try to stop blaming myself.”

“Then I will try as well,” she says stiffly. 

He supposes that’s as good as it’s gonna get right now. 

“Trying-five?” he suggests tentatively, holding up his palm. 

She rolls her eyes, but there’s a hint of a smile tugging at her mouth as she obliges, slapping her palm against his. He closes his fingers around hers, offering her a hopeful smile. 

Then he almost leaps away from her in shock when Chuck’s voice yells from behind them, “I’m glad you two kids worked things out!”

Gamora’s eyes widen, her cheeks darkening in a blush. This _is_ a small place, he suddenly remembers, and they weren’t exactly whispering. 

“Thanks, Chuck!” he shouts back, then mumbles to Gamora, “The _real_ ultimate cryptid is his inside voice.” 

“Impossible,” she whispers. “That’s too unrealistic, even for this place.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ik us gotg fans are going through a rough time rn, but our love for these bbs keeps us going no matter what <333


	14. Chapter 14

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please note the change in rating ;))

There’s definitely an art to taking pictures with the Stark-phone’s camera. True, the ones Peter took at the museum were decent enough, and served their purpose of making the others laugh. Groot has sent two more picture replies of his own, one where he’s pretending to brush his vines and another doing a cool kid pose in front of what must be the mirror in his quarters at the Compound. 

Still, Peter’s learning that the lighting and the angle change the quality of the picture a great deal, something he’s never had to consider since holos automatically take care of all that. Currently he’s got a selection of souvenirs from the museum spread out on their latest hotel bed, playing with the phone’s variety of photo filters while Gamora’s changing in the bathroom.

He’s already taken a picture of the magnet they’ve purchased for Kraglin, with a picture of the Loch Ness monster. That one had been an easy pick, because of the resemblance of his fin. Mantis Man had been equally clear-cut, and he’s pretty proud of the picture he’s managed to get, with an effect to make it look like it was taken in the forest. Currently he’s working on a picture of the Ahool, which he’s chosen for Rocket. Mainly because of the name (because, you know, _a-hole_ ), but also because it sorta-kinda looks like a raccoon with wings.

“That’s quite an operation,” says Gamora, as she emerges from the bathroom, tossing her clothes from the day neatly into their open bag. 

Peter glances at her over his shoulder, smiling before turning back to the pile. “You sure we shouldn’t have gotten one for Nebula? I don’t wanna make her feel excluded…”

“I’m sure. She would not appreciate being compared to any of those creatures.” 

“I don’t think Rocket’s gonna appreciate being compared to this,” he says, cackling as he looks at the Ahool again. 

“Not in the same way,” Gamora says sadly. “Nebula is sensitive about her modifications.” 

“Right, right,” he says more seriously. “We’ll make up for it with something else. Ask her what souvenir she wants!” 

She grabs her hairbrush and sits on the edge of the bed. He watches, mesmerized as always, as she runs the brush through her hair. “She will tell me the only souvenir she wants is the head of all our enemies on a stick.” 

“Well, she’s taking care of that for us,” he says, cleaning up his photoshoot so he can join her on the bed, flopping backwards onto it dramatically. She gives him a faux-irritated look as it shakes the mattress. He grins.“Maybe she’ll accept one of the Yeti hats in its place. We could put it on a stick.”

Gamora makes a face. “If we must give her a souvenir from that museum, I would choose one of the t-shirts.” 

“Oh!” Peter says eagerly, having almost forgotten the shirts. They’re plain white and look homemade (which they probably are) with the words _seek the truth_ printed across the chest in blocky letters. “That’s a good idea. It does kinda fit with her whole vengeance thing.”

“Exactly,” she says. She’s brushed out the tighter curls, her hair falling in loose waves around her shoulders. The humidity’s made it bigger than usual, almost poofy. 

“You want me to braid it?” asks Peter, mainly because he wants to touch it.

She shakes her head, though, setting her brush on the bedside table. “Think I’ll leave it down for now. But thanks.”

“Okay,” he agrees, swallowing his disappointment. Whatever makes her comfortable, of course. “You wanna...see what’s on TV, I guess?” It’s still relatively early in the evening, but it’s not like either of them has gotten much sleep in the past few days, and they’ve already had dinner. He’s not really in the mood to do anything that doesn’t involve being in bed.

“Sure.” She glances at him somewhat hesitantly, and another pang goes through him when he thinks about how easy this kind of thing normally is for them, to just fall into bed together at the end of the day. Now, when he pats the spot next to him on the bed, she does climb over and lie next to him, but her movements are a little stiff, with a tentativeness he’d thought she’d lost years ago. 

She settles soon enough though, curling up against him when he wraps his arm around her shoulder, and he lets himself relax. Apparently he’d been a bit stiff, too. 

“I hope there’s something good on,” he says, mostly just because he needs to say _something_. 

The first thing that pops up when he turns the TV on is the news, and he changes that as quickly as he can; they don’t need to risk seeing footage from the battle right now. 

“Is there not a menu where you can check what’s on each channel?” she asks.

“Oh, Gamora, Gamora, Gamora,” he says on a fake-sigh. “Allow me to introduce you to the time-honored Terran tradition of channel surfing--no, it’s not actual surfing.” 

“Then why is it called that?” she asks predictably, her breath brushing his neck as she shifts her head on his shoulder.

Peter sighs, considering how to answer. He’s known she’d probably ask, and he absolutely doesn’t know the origin of the term. He could make something up, true, and chances are that she’d never have any way of knowing. But after everything they’ve talked about today, all of the evasions and half-truths and pain…

“I don’t know,” he says finally, tiredly. “It just is.”

She’s quiet for a moment, apparently processing this. Then she presses a soft kiss to the side of his neck. “All right.”

It only takes a few minutes of flipping channels before he realizes just how little he recognizes. That probably shouldn’t be a surprise--it’s been thirty years, after all, and it’s not like he’s unaware that television changes. That’s sort of the point after all. Still, it’s an odd sort of sadness, realizing that what he’s pictured of television on Earth no longer exists.

“Peter?” asks Gamora, her voice a bit hesitant. His thoughts must be showing on his face again.

He runs a hand through her hair, tucking a few pieces back behind her ears. “Yeah?”

“What is a housewife?” she asks, her gaze on the television. “And what indicates a real one as opposed to a fake one?”

It’s a term he vaguely remembers, one that had been applied to his grandmother and the mothers of some of his classmates. “It’s a person who’s married and who…stays at home. Maybe this Beverly Hills place has a lot of people who are just pretending, and they’re trying to investigate who’s a real one.” 

She makes a thoughtful noise. “Is that why they’re fighting?” 

“Could be.” He turns the volume up, hoping that will provide some answers, but the three women on screen appear to be arguing about whether one...or perhaps all?...of them slept with one of the other’s husbands. 

After a few moments of that, Gamora says, “They are not even in a house.”

“The definition might have changed,” he admits, because so far he doesn’t understand what any of this has to do with a real versus fake investigation. 

They watch until it goes to commercial, at which point Peter is no closer to understanding the distinction or what the show is actually about, so he flips the channel again. “There’s got to be something better on.”

“That’s not a very high bar.” 

He snorts, and stops the TV on the next channel because-- “ _These_ people are in a house.”

“There’s nothing else in the house, though,” Gamora points out. “Perhaps they’re investigating a robbery?”

“I think they’re destroying it,” he says, watching as someone throws a hammer at a wall.

“Are they the robbers?” asks Gamora, frowning. “Are they committing a crime? Why would the people recording not do something to stop them?” 

_”You gotta hang onto the hammer, babe,”_ says the man on the television screen.

The woman turns to look at him with an expression of pure venom on her face. _”You think I don’t realize that?”_

The man runs a hand through his hair, which leaves a fair amount of what appears to be dust in it. _”Well you just threw it, and that’s not how you demo--”_

_”I can’t believe we let them talk us into buying this place!”_ the woman explodes, retrieving the hammer from the wall and holding it out in front of herself in a way that looks not unlike a weapon. _”I wanted open-concept, this place has walls everywhere!”_

_”But it was way below budget!”_ says the man. _”And besides, this way we get to make it ours!”_

“I guess they own it, then?” says Peter, jumping a bit as the woman throws the hammer again, launching into an even louder rant. “Though I don’t get why you’d destroy a house you owned.”

“This seems like a stressful show,” says Gamora, shaking her head.

“Yeah, okay,” he agrees, and flips the channel again. This time they’re met with an image of a man who appears to be cooking something in a pot, except that he’s also blindfolded and has one hand tied behind his back.

“That appears to be extremely dangerous,” Gamora says with alarm. 

“Drax would do that,” he says, amused. “Actually, Drax would love this show. Remind me to tell him to watch...oh, it’s called _Cutthroat Kitchen_. He’ll be sold on the name alone.” 

Gamora groans. “Please don’t. He _would_ try to do this and end up chopping off a finger.” 

“All right,” he laughs. “Maybe _Real Housewives_?” 

“Then he’s going to start throwing alcohol in people’s faces.” 

“He is impressionable,” he admits on a sigh. He tries to watch this show for a bit, but it’s too strange, so outside of what he remembers that he can’t even relate it to his home world at all. So he flips channels again, this time landing on a show where a man is tearing petals one by one off a rose with a single, dramatic tear rolling down his cheek. 

“Perhaps this one,” Gamora says. “It appears mostly harmless.” 

“Why is he talking to the camera?” Peter asks, perplexed and a little frustrated. “Why do _all_ the people in these shows know they’re being filmed?” 

She shifts against him, raising her head to meet his eyes and then running a hand over his side. It’s clearly an attempt to be soothing, but it makes him shiver, makes him even more aware of the way the length of her body is pressed up against his.

“Is it unusual?” she asks after a moment. “For people to know they’re being filmed? The way you’ve described actors, it sounded like a job they chose. But maybe I misunderstood?”

“Oh!” says Peter, her question giving him the sudden bizarre image of camera crews sneaking around, spying on actors. “No, no. Actors know when they’re being filmed, they’re pretending to be in a story, based on a script that’s written for them. But...I don’t think these people are actors?”

She furrows her brow. “What do you mean?”

On the screen, the picture has switched to a different man, who looks even more dramatic and even less pleased. _”Figures,_ ” he says in a decidedly bitter tone. _”Nice guys never win. I mean, I’m a nice guy and look where I am: going home.”_

“I mean,” says Peter, “that I think these are just...regular people? Like...they’re people...I dunno, doing normal things. Cooking, or working on a house, or...whatever this is.”

Her eyebrows shoot up as she considers. “Well. If this is _normal_ then that certainly explains many of the things you have told me about Terran culture.”

He snorts. “Well, I think this is overdramatic, but…it’s definitely not the TV I’m used to. Or, that I _was_ used to.” 

“Perhaps it’s just this TV?” 

“Maybe,” he says, though he’s pretty sure that’s not how TV works, unless that has also changed. But she’s clearly trying to make him feel better, so he offers her a smile…and realizes exactly how close they are. 

She’s got her head on his shoulder, and she’s looking up at him through her lashes. When he turns his head to smile at her, they’re barely an inch apart. Normally, he wouldn’t hesitate to close that distance, but they’re in a hotel on Earth after both of them were kind-of-mostly-dead for a period of time; these aren’t exactly normal circumstances. 

Her mind seems to have gone to the same place as his, though, because the hand that’s stroking his side shifts from soothing into something decidedly more purposeful. 

“I know it is a tradition to ‘make out’ while watching movies,” she says, voice deceptively casual. “Is there a similar tradition for channel surfing?” 

He clears his throat, trying to imitate her tone when he says, “Um, yeah. Definitely.” 

“All right,” she says with a devious smirk. “I was just wondering.” 

“Well,” says Peter, mouth suddenly very dry, “now you know.” 

She watches him for another long moment, then turns her attention back to the TV. He clears his throat again, his heart pounding wildly in his chest, hyper-aware of every sensation from her fingers against his side. He flips the channel again, landing on yet another scene of women yelling at one another with drinks in their hands. It takes him far longer than it probably should to realize that this is a _different_ set of Housewives, arguing about a different set of husbands. He’s trying to think of something witty to say, something that will make her laugh, when her fingers find their way under the hem of his shirt and all the words he’s ever known immediately leave his head.

He glances sideways at her again, finds her still looking at the television, though she’s got her palm flattened over his abdomen, fingertips tracing the surface of his skin. So that’s the game, he thinks. Pretend that what they’re doing is still channel surfing.

He changes the channel again, this time finding a car commercial, then two more times before finally settling on what appears to be a nature documentary. That might be good, he thinks. Calming. 

Then Gamora presses her lips to the sensitive spot behind his ear and the remote falls out of his hand with a thud.

He feels her grin, and her breath tickles his skin when she says, “Oh, are you done surfing?”

“Just, um--decided on the channel,” he says, voice higher-pitched than it was a second ago. “This weird...monkey thing is fascinating.” 

“Is it?” she murmurs, lips trailing a path down his neck. 

“I…” He closes his eyes, tries to remember what words are. “I… Babe, fuck, I can’t think when you’re doing that.”

She lifts her head and offers him a wicked smile. “Does that mean I win?”

He laughs because _of course_ this is a competition too, one in which he’s happy to admit defeat. “Yes, you win, you win. Your prize is anything you want.” 

“Good,” she says, before cupping his face to turn it towards her and kissing him deeply. 

He shifts onto his side so he can throw his arm around her, be as close as possible. Gamora makes a soft, pleased noise into the kiss and he nearly loses his mind. 

Kissing her became one of his favorite things in the galaxy from the very first time, and that hasn’t changed in the four years they’ve been doing it. It’s like every good thing in existence is wrapped up in her lips; like coming home and free-falling through the air all at once. 

It feels paradoxically as though he’s traveled somehow back in time, and not in the way Stark and the others just have. It’s just that it feels as though this is all new again, all uncertain. Every touch of hers is like fire, reminding him how much he loves her, how much he wants her, how very, very much he’s missed her. And yet he also feels strangely anxious, unsure of how to read her, and afraid to push too far. 

“Hey,” she breathes after a long moment, her hands still cupping the sides of his face, thumbs tracing along his cheekbones. He realizes abruptly that he doesn’t remember her breaking the kiss, has actually managed to be too lost in his thoughts.

“Hi,” he echoes, trying to think of something, anything else to say but coming up blank.

“You okay?” she prompts, after he’s opened and closed his mouth several times like a particularly idiotic fish.

“Yeah,” says Peter, his voice sounding dopey in his own ears. “I just--love you.”

She’s very serious and intense when she responds, “I love you too. Mor--” She abruptly cuts herself off, but his heart’s already hammering, knowing what she was about to say. His mind instantly supplies him with the image of her face when she’d last said it, when he’d held a blaster to her head, when he’d-- 

He shoves that thought as far out of his mind as it will go, doing his best to focus on her _now_ , on the guilt he can see in her eyes. He can push past this. He can. 

“I know,” he says. “Are _you_ okay? Is this okay?” 

“Yes,” she says, then she’s kissing him again, nothing slow or tentative about it; she might as well be trying to devour him. 

He lets out a surprised noise, muffled against her lips, but reciprocates eagerly. It’s a lot so soon, but he loves her and wants her and he’s been missing this connection more than he even realized. 

“Sit up,” she orders, when he finally has to break away for breath. 

She gives him scarcely ten seconds to prop himself up against the headboard before straddling his lap, settling her weight against him. His heart’s still pounding and he knows that she must be able to hear it, hopes against hope that she'll interpret it as arousal. Because he _is_ feeling that too, without question, and he doesn't want her to stop. He doesn't want to be the reason that they stop. Not when they're _so close_ to reclaiming this part of their relationship. 

Gamora tugs at the hem of his shirt, starts to lift it but then pauses, studying his face. “Is this okay?”

“Yeah,” says Peter, offering her a weak smile. “Yeah, of course. Only now neither of us can see the TV.”

She shakes her head and smiles, the tension breaking some. “Peter…”

He leans forward and kisses the tip of her nose lightly, then raises his arms so that she can pull off his shirt. 

She rests her hand on his chest as soon as she’s got it off, running her fingers through the hair there in a way that makes him shiver. It doesn’t escape his notice that her hand is directly over his heart, though, and that her throat works as she swallows. 

He’s about to ask again if she’s okay when she blinks and her expression clears. “Isn’t ignoring what’s on the television a vital part of these traditions?”

“You’ve got a point,” he says, striving to match her light-hearted, teasing tone. “We better get back to that.” 

This time he’s the one who initiates the kiss, pulling her in closer with a hand threaded through her hair. He slides down on the bed slowly, bringing her with him so she’s sprawled out on top of him, hands running along his arms and his sides. He makes a conscious effort to focus on the way her hair brushes his cheeks while they kiss, the feel of her chest against his, magnified even more when they pull away enough for her to get her top off too. 

Her skin is warm against his and he runs his hands over her back, feeling the softness of it under his palms. He thinks again of a time four years ago, when they'd just been exploring this immense, miraculous thing between them. When they'd first been learning one another's bodies, slowly and carefully, and really not all that gracefully.

His heart was pounding then too, he remembers, thundering in his temples and his ears. At the time he’d been more anxious than ever before, afraid to disappoint her, afraid to have this wonderful, fragile chance fall to pieces in his hands. He knows now that she had felt the same, and thinks that she might in this moment as well.

Funny, how he’d been fighting grief then too, trying desperately to keep his mind off Yondu's death, the last event to visit him over and over again in nightmares. Cruel, in hindsight, how he'd thought then that nothing would ever be more painful. 

Gamora’s kissing his jaw now, making her way down his neck, and he closes his eyes, letting the feel of her lips wash over him. It’s so, so good, and he thinks it ought to be able to distract him, but suddenly feeling her skin under his hands and against his chest just isn’t enough, so he rolls them over, telegraphing his intention so she could easily stop him if she wanted. She doesn’t. 

He attaches his lips to her neck, gentle, idle kisses at first that turn more purposeful when she gets her hand in his hair, scratching her nails all the way to the back of his neck and making him groan. “ _Mora_.”

“What?” she asks innocently, doing it again. That’s a spot she’d learned quickly drives him crazy, able to either relax him or send him from zero to sixty in less than a second depending on how she touches it. Right now it robs him of his ability to speak. All he can do is reach down and inch her leggings over her hips, overcome with the urge to get her _more naked_.

She lifts up to help him out, letting out a little moan when his lips reach her collarbone. He smiles triumphantly and glances down to watch the leggings’ progress. 

And then he freezes. 

The skin on her abdomen is still solidly, undeniably green, indistinguishable from the rest of her body. It looks exactly the way it did in the shower the other night, the same way it did when her stretching had caused her shirt to ride up. Not a hint of silver in sight. 

To be fair, he isn’t sure he’s been doing very well at his resolution to show her more intimacy or romance. Most of their conversations over the past day have involved panic, guilt, grief...or some painful cocktail of all three. Still, he can’t help doubting himself now, can’t help worrying that maybe she isn’t as eager to do this as she seems. 

“Peter?” she asks finally, though when he meets her eyes, the look of concern tells him that she knows what he’s seeing, knows why he’s stopped.

He still has to say it, though. “You’re, um…” It’s surprisingly difficult to find the words, feels oddly embarrassing, not unlike pointing out some type of disfigurement. “You’re not--silver.”

“Not yet,” she agrees, her tone lighter than her expression would suggest.

“Not yet?” he echoes, a bit incredulously. He has no idea how to take that--There’s never been a _yet_ before, at least not in terms of it being gone entirely.

She shrugs with that same manufactured nonchalance. “You’re not hard yet either.” As if that’s any more than superficially the same thing.

“Well, not all the way,” he says defensively, though in truth it normally takes much less than what they’ve done so far for him to be ready to go. He wants her, wants her _so_ much, which makes this all the more frustrating. “It’s just...been a while.”

She nods but she definitely doesn’t buy it, nor should she, really; that usually gives him the opposite problem. 

“But you--you _want_ this, right?” he asks, swallowing down the wave of panic that’s trying to rise up. “

“Yes, Peter,” she says firmly, completely serious. “Do you?”

“ _Yes_.” He takes a deep breath, then dives in to kiss her again, abandoning her pants to cup her face with both hands. She returns the kiss fiercely, and just like that they’re back to trying to devour one another. 

_This will be fine_ , he tells himself, starting up the internal pep talk, trying to ignore the way his heart beats out of control. So it might take a bit longer than usual, no big deal. They’ve dragged out foreplay for hours before just for the hell of it. That’s a rare occasion, as neither of them have that much patience very often, but it’s happened and maybe that’s just what’s happening right now too. 

He can _do_ extended foreplay. He lifts his chest off of hers enough to get a hand on her breast. Her nipple is hard; that’s good. She gasps into the kiss when he brushes his thumb over it. 

The adrenaline still running through him means that he doesn't have the breath for long kisses, but he's hoping she won't notice. Straying from her lips, he kisses down her cheek, her jaw, the curve of her throat. Pausing over her clavicle, he sucks gently, not quite hard enough to leave a mark. Ordinarily he knows she’d like that, but right now he's afraid of overstepping, afraid of doing anything rough when he still wants to protect her with every fiber of his being. 

Gamora rolls her head back, though, making a pleased sound in her throat that spurs him onward. Crawling down her body, he presses a kiss to the soft skin between her breasts, then takes a nipple in his mouth. She rewards him with an outright moan, her fingers curling into his hair again, and for a moment he allows himself to be pleased. Her nipples are one of the most exquisitely sensitive spots on her body, and one she's confessed nobody ever paid much attention to before him. It's sort of his mission to give them the love they deserve and right now he's definitely succeeding, judging by the way she's squirming under him. 

Pulling back finally, he realizes that he never finished with her leggings, which are clinging around her thighs. Her abdomen _still_ isn't silver, he notices, but he tries to shove the thought down, focusing on the way her chest rises and falls as her breathing grows more rapid. 

His breathing is growing more rapid too; _from arousal_ , he thinks, just from arousal. His dick still isn’t on board but it’s not a big deal, as long as he doesn’t think about it. 

He moves his attention to getting her leggings all the way off, following their descent with his lips against her legs until he’s finally got them over her feet. He slowly kisses his way back up, thinking maybe he can just focus on her legs for a while and that will do the trick. He loves her legs, so smooth and long, the way the muscles in her thighs jump when his stubble brushes against them. 

“Peter,” she says, voice breathy. Her hands are on his shoulders, urging him up. “C’mere.” 

He looks up at her and swallows, feeling like there’s a fist around his heart squeezing tighter and tighter. He’s still not ready and if he moves where she wants him she’s gonna _know_ but worse than that, her abdomen remains stubbornly silver-less. _How_ is she still not silver? He knows she’s aroused, he can hear it, he can see it, so that can’t be the problem. 

He knew that already, though. He knew what this meant the second he noticed, he just didn’t want to admit it. She told him herself what the silver means to her people, that it indicates not only that she wants him, but that she loves him as a life partner, and he’s never seen her without it since, not _once_ before _now_ after he’s failed her and she’s had to spend days that felt like years in a cold, empty hell alone and--

“Peter. _Peter!_ ” Her hands on his shoulders are more insistent now, though he’s looking anywhere but at her face--the sheets, the wall, the vapid pointless watercolor hanging above the bed. 

“I’m fine,” he insists, though his voice is hoarse, choked, and not with arousal at all. “I’m fine, I’m fine, don’t stop.”

She sits up abruptly, which throws off his equilibrium, though it’s clear she hasn’t intended it to. He knows what she wants--for him to sit up and talk to her like a goddamned adult, to stop hiding from her like he’s promised so many times. But his heart is pounding and his chest hurts and he’s _still not hard._

_She doesn’t love you,_ says his heartbeat, practically screaming at him as he struggles for breath. _She doesn’t love you, she doesn’t love you,_ and then _you failed, you failed, you failed._

When she reaches for him again, Peter rolls over onto his side, curls up with his knees to his chest and holds on like it might somehow be able to stop his entire world from falling apart. Too late, of course, though. Everything always too late.

“Peter, sweetheart, please,” she’s saying. “You’re okay, just breathe.” 

Her hand on his shoulder is tentative, not at all assured and confident like she used to touch him. But she used to be silver for him too, so there’s a lot of things different now, things he’s broken beyond repair. 

He shakes his head and a sob catches in his throat, like he’s breathing too erratically to let it out. He keeps his face turned away from her, trying to get this under control because he doesn’t want to make her deal with another one of his breakdowns, especially when she doesn’t love him anymore, when she’s only with him out of a sense of obligation or just because she’s a nice person who he doesn’t deserve. 

The mattress shifts as she somehow manages to climb over him without touching him. She flattens out in front of him so their faces are level and he has no choice but to look at her, though his eyes are swimming with tears that make it difficult to see. He can still feel her hand on his chest, as close to his heart as she can get while he’s curled up like this, can still hear the imploring tone of her voice when she says, “Peter, c’mon, breathe. Breathe with me.” 

“No,” he chokes out after a moment, because breathing with her means needing her, means that he can't handle this, means being an obligation. Instead he falls back on the one thing still at his disposal for grounding: pain. He digs his fingers into his injured palm, bites the inside of his lip until he tastes blood, then does it again in a different spot. It's agony, but after a moment he can breathe again. 

Gamora is looking at him with a mix of frustration and horror, clearly aware of what he's just done. “Sweetheart--"

“Don't!” he snaps, an order this time, though he's always, _always_ careful not to use those with her. “Don't call me that. You don't _have to_ call me that.”

She blinks, clearly taken aback. “What are you talking about?”

“You know,” he grits, throat still tight, though the anger starting to boil in the pit of his stomach helps. 

“If I knew, I wouldn't be asking.” She holds his gaze for a long moment, then sighs when it's apparently become clear that he's not going to respond. “If you were having trouble, you could have just told me.”

“You're not silver,” he says very deliberately. If he gives up even one ounce of control, he's going to start screaming, or sobbing, or both. 

“No…” she says slowly. “But I wanted to do this. I would have told you if I didn't.”

“I know you wanted _this_ ,” he hisses. “Just--just not _me._ ”

“How could I want this but not you?” she asks, like she doesn’t know. 

“The silver means you want me,” he says, a tremble in his otherwise carefully controlled voice. “That you—love me. No silver…” He trails off, lets the rest of it be implied because he can’t say the words, he can’t. 

Her eyes widen and her jaw drops. “ _Peter._ You think I don’t love you?” 

“I know you don’t!” he snaps, losing his battle with his own self-control. “I don’t know why you’ve been pretending this whole time. Pity or whatever I guess.” 

“ _What_?” She looks horrified, probably because she never wanted him to find out. Or she wanted to wait to tell him when he wasn’t so much of a disaster. Yeah, that’s probably it. “Peter, how could you possibly think that? I love you _so much_.”

“Then why—why?” he asks, when he can’t get any other words out, his voice breaking already, interrupted by a sob that makes him turn his face into the mattress in a futile attempt to hide it. 

She doesn't answer in words for a moment, instead rests her hand against his back again, like that's somehow supposed to convince him that his world isn't ending right now. Her fingers are shaking violently, though. Almost like they had on the first night she'd been back, the Stone's influence still powerful and _god_ how can he blame her for this? How can he possibly expect her to love him after he let her be _used_ at its mercy?

“I love you,” she says finally, her voice soft but the most vehement he’s ever heard it, like she's put every ounce of strength she has into saying this. “More than anything.”

Another strangled noise escapes his throat at that, and he thinks that she has to know the effect those words have on him, must have used them specifically for a reason. 

“ _Why_?” he insists, though he's not sure this time which statement he's questioning. 

Gamora takes an audible breath, blows it out, then another and another until gradually they become more steady. She pulls her hand back and Peter feels her weight shift against the mattress--sitting up, he thinks, though he's still too afraid to look. 

“I don't know why I'm not silver,” she says finally, her tone resolute. “Nothing about the way I feel has changed. All I can think is that maybe--maybe the Stone--" Her voice breaks on the last word and she cuts herself off, clearly swallowing tears. 

Even now, even drowning in fear and doubt and shame, Peter can't bear to let her face that particular pain alone. It's all he can manage to roll onto his side, to meet her eyes silently, but he does it.

“You used the Stone,” she says slowly, words carefully measured this time. “You wielded its power when you brought me back. Maybe you didn't know, but in doing that, you offered it your soul. It _wanted_ you, which was its right.”

_It wanted to take you_ , she’d said back at the Compound. _I didn’t let it._ She’d told him right after he’d returned to their room to find her curled up and shaking. He hasn’t thought about it since, which suddenly seems foolish, but all his focus had been on comforting her after her nightmare. 

“I’m still here,” he says weakly, both as a reassurance and a question. 

“Because I didn’t let it,” she says again, voice fierce despite the tremor in it. “It knew what you wanted, so it was going to trade your soul for mine, but I was not about to…” She bites her lip, and he reaches out to rest a shaky hand on her thigh. “If it wanted a soul, it could keep mine.”

“Mora,” he chokes out. The thought of her being willing to stay in that cold, empty place forever so he wouldn’t have to is almost too much to bear, though he knows he would do the same thing in her place. “...You’re here too.”

“What if I’m not?” she whispers, fear slipping its way into her carefully controlled words. “What if I’m not _all_ here? What if the Stone kept a piece of me?” She gestures toward her abdomen. 

“No, no,” Peter says quickly, the panic from that thought blending with the panic he’s already feeling until he feels physically sick. “It couldn’t have, you’re _here_.”

She shakes her head, squeezing her eyes shut. “The Stone needs a soul to work.” 

“Do you--do you _know_ that?” he asks, hoping against hope that she doesn’t. “Who told you?”

“The Stone,” she says simply, pressing her lips together in a tight bloodless line. “When she--when it asked for my help in the battle.”

“Oh,” he breathes, feeling that like a punch to the gut. That seems pretty conclusive, even he has to admit. Do the Infinity Stones even have the capacity to lie? “But--But you’re _here._ You are. Right?” He’s too dizzy to sit up, is absolutely certain he’ll be sick if he tries to move that much. Still, he shifts closer to her, moves his hand up to rest over her heart, needing the reassurance of its beat. It’s there, racing, just like his.

“I don’t know,” she repeats. “I mean--I suppose, yes. This part of me is, at least.”

“Do you--” He breaks off, swallows, has to fight to get the words out. “Do you _feel_ like a part of you is still there?”

Gamora is silent for so long that he’s about to prompt her again, about to check whether he’s thrown her into some sort of flashback.

“Yes,” she whispers finally, looking down at her abdomen and then pointedly back at him. “There’s--that. And also--also I see it every time I dream.”

A couple more tears fall at that, his already mangled heart aching even more. “Baby,” he manages, moving with some difficulty to rest his head against her thigh. It’s not quite on her lap; despite her reassurances, he doesn’t dare just yet. “That doesn’t mean your soul is still there. I see--” 

His throat protests finishing that sentence; he’s having a hard enough time getting _any_ words out, much less those in particular. But Gamora is opening up to him, sharing a fear she’s clearly had in the back of her mind this entire time. She deserves this from him in return. 

“I see myself kill you in my dreams every night,” he says, getting the words out as quickly as he can. “After Ego, I saw eternity in my sleep for a long time.”

She nods. She knows this, of course. She was there every time he woke up, ready to hold him and listen or whatever else he needed. 

“It is--always, though. Almost every time I close my eyes, I see it again.” She sounds broken, desperate, almost pleading; it would be enough to make him cry if he wasn’t already. 

“That will go away,” he promises, hearing the edge of a plea in his own voice; a plea for it to be true, a plea for her to believe it is true. “It’ll just take some time.”

She glances at her abdomen again. “And this?”

Peter shakes his head, instantly regretting ever bringing it up, ever questioning her. He wishes he didn’t know about this particular fear of hers, wishes he could erase the possibility from consideration so he never has to think about it again. But of course that’s selfish, because _she_ can’t escape it, has been dealing with it by herself for the past few days, and no way in hell is going to let that continue to be the case.

“I don’t know,” he admits finally, though these words are a bit easier to find. He can do this, now that he’s got a mission. He can be there for her. He can manage, somehow, to _not_ disappoint the most important woman in his life this time. “You said you don’t feel any different than before, right?”

“I--” She bites her lip again, swallows. “I feel--Distant, I suppose? Not intentionally, but--as if--as if there is a part of that place...the cold, and the emptiness...that’s worked its way under my skin. Like it’s still there, between me and--everything else.”

“Gamora,” he whispers, horrified, but not because he thinks it’s a sign of the Stone’s influence. Because he knows exactly what she means, because he remembers feeling it, back when everything between them was new, when he’d been torn between euphoria and grief, dreaming of eternity and the vacuum of space.

“Please,” she says, when he can’t find the words to finish that thought. Her tone is outright _begging_ , and it breaks his heart in a way he’s never even thought possible. “ _Please_ believe that I love you, despite everything.”

He doesn’t respond right away, struggling with himself. He can see how important this is to her, can’t detect any hint of intentional deception, and really, there’s no evidence that her feelings have changed besides the one. For fuck’s sake, she was willing to sacrifice herself to an eternity of cold solitude to spare him from it. 

While he can’t deny the hint of doubt that lingers in the back of his mind, afraid that maybe she just hasn’t realized her feelings have changed yet, he knows there’s nothing he can do about that right now. For now, all he can do is trust her; and he does. If this is what she needs from him, well--he’d be willing to do this and a whole lot more. 

He sits up carefully, muscles wobbly and weak as if he’s just lost most of his strength. He manages it, though, and he cups her face between both hands, swiping at her tears with his thumbs. Her eyes are plaintive, as pleading as her voice, and as sincere. 

“Okay,” he whispers. “Okay. I believe you.”

She exhales, tears falling rapidly, and lets herself sag in relief, head dropping onto his shoulder. He wraps his arms around her immediately, pulling her to him with his last remaining strength, both of them trembling and silently crying. His energy is absolutely spent, the ebbing adrenaline leaving him weak and wrung out. He has to lean his head on her shoulder too, letting her keep him up while he does the same for her, until it’s not clear who’s supporting whom.


	15. Chapter 15

Somehow Gamora manages to sleep. 

It comes slowly, after they've both stopped crying, the initial intensity of emotion, of desperation, trickling away until there's nothing left in its place but a quiet void. 

Peter watches her pull her pajamas back on, moving gingerly, almost like she's injured. When she's ready, he curls up with an arm around her, a leg thrown over her hip, face buried in her hair.

He _doesn't_ sleep, of course. Partly because his mind is reeling, and because he's not in any way prepared to watch her die in his dreams again. And partly because he's waiting for _her_ nightmares to come, waiting to be there for her. 

Watching the shadows crawl across the ceiling, the shifting light from cars outside, he can't stop his mind from wandering, replaying their conversation. He's been waiting for the other shoe to drop this entire time. From the moment he got her back, he's been waiting for something to take her away again, for all of this to prove too good to be true. And now, here they are--with her fearing for her soul. With _him_ fearing the loss of her love. 

Part of him thinks he’d understand if she couldn't love him after all of his failures. Hell, she's finally, _finally_ opened up about her deepest fears, and here he is, thinking about himself. But if he's honest, what he fears more is that she's lost the ability to love _at all_ , that it won't matter what she wants if the Stone has stolen that away. He thinks of his mother, of the tumor in her head, of the way it took so much of her essence, even before her death. He had to watch as she gradually faded, as her personality changed, as she no longer looked or acted the same. 

He never stopped loving his mother for a moment, though. He knows that she never stopped loving him either, even if she sometimes didn’t express it the same way she used to. So maybe it’s the same with Gamora. He doesn’t want to think about watching her deteriorate and lose parts of herself, but as long as she wants him here he’s not going anywhere. He’ll spend every second of his life making hers as happy as possible. 

She still loves him. Or at least she still wants to love him. And he couldn’t love her one iota less if he tried. 

He nuzzles her hair, one of the few touches he’s learned doesn’t wake her, actually seems to soothe her in sleep. Maybe he can help her fight off the realm in her dreams, show her body that it’s not trapped in the cold, that she’s under the warm covers, tucked in with him. 

Assuming her body even finds that comforting anymore, he thinks, the dark thoughts intruding yet again. What if nothing he does will be able to comfort her anymore? If her body’s not reacting to him like it usually does, then — 

Suddenly she makes a soft noise and he curses himself; he’s tensed up without realizing it, and he’s not sure if it’s that, or the way his heart rate has accelerated, or something she’s seen in her dreams, but whatever it is causes her to wake with a gasp. 

She doesn’t pull away, thankfully, doesn’t go into a defensive posture or curl up shivering. She _is_ shaking, he notices immediately, though not as badly as it’s often been this past week. After a moment of taking deep, measured breaths, she turns in his arms, meeting his gaze over her shoulder. Only then does he realize that the sky is starting to grow light again outside, because the shadows have lifted enough that he can see her face.

“Sorry,” he says instinctively. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to--Did I wake you?” He doesn’t want to make any assumptions. He’s already caused her too much pain that way.

“No.” She takes another breath and rolls over the rest of the way, tangling their legs before finding one of his hands under the covers and lacing their fingers too. 

She’s clearly in the mood to be touched, and Peter offers her a little smile, squeezing her hand lightly. He wants this too, fears and all. “Were you dreaming?”

She nods. “Unfortunately.” Then she pulls his hand up to her lips, slowly kissing the backs of his knuckles.

Peter shivers, tries to swallow down the myriad of emotions rising in his throat. “Do you wanna--talk about it?”

Gamora shakes her head. “No.” Instead she shifts closer, resting her free hand over his heart.

He stays quiet, just letting her feel his heartbeat, knowing it helps ground her. Talking sometimes does, too, but more often than not if she’s managed to sleep through a nightmare, all she wants in the morning is to be held. 

_Or this_ , he thinks, as she looks up at him through her lashes and leans in slowly to kiss him. The contact is soft and tender enough that he could cry, could almost pretend this is any other morning, where they wake up to each other and spend as long as they can in bed before they have to get up, exchanging kisses just like these that may or may not lead somewhere. 

He’s well aware right now that it’s not going to, nor would he really want it to. He’s still reeling from last night, has no desire to repeat the panic and heartache that followed. Even if he did, her hand is still shaking; her lips are tentative as they brush his, even as he returns the kiss with gentle enthusiasm, making sure to let her completely control it. 

He shifts so he can cup the back of her head with his other hand and caress her hair. He wants her to know that he’s in this, that he’s enjoying whatever she wants to give him, even -- _especially_ \-- after last night, knowing that she still wants to kiss him.

“I'm here,” he promises, when she breaks away, lacking her usual breath stamina. She gets like that, he knows, when she's scared or sad and trying not to show it, trying to just silently find comfort and strength in shared touch. 

“I know,” she says, though not unkindly. He thinks there's a note of gratitude in her tone, actually. 

“You're here too,” he tells her on a whim, tucking a few locks of hair behind her ear and then pressing a tender kiss to her temple.

She bites her lip, nods, then buries her face against his neck. 

He doesn't think she's crying, doesn't feel the telltale heat of tears, but his own eyes well up in sympathy just the same. He's overwhelmed suddenly by the enormity of what she's done for him, that no matter what the truth might be now, in _that_ moment she'd loved him so damned much that she'd been willing to accept eternity living her worst nightmare. She'd sacrificed herself--not for the universe, not for the greater good--just for _him._

She’s already pressed up against him but he tightens his arms around her anyway, needing her as close as they can possibly get. He kisses the side of head, her hair, her shoulder, strokes her back reverently, anything he can do to satisfy the urge to care for her. 

“I love you,” he breathes, despite the sliver of fear that tickles his brain at saying those words, afraid of being rejected. 

“ _I love you_ ,” she says, soft but strong, the words muffled against his skin. 

He nods and just keeps holding her, relaxing slightly at her response. 

They stay like that for a long time, still except for the occasional kisses he drops onto her head. It goes on for so long that he might think she’s drifted off again, if it weren’t for the way she’s gripping his shoulders like a lifeline. 

That’s why he’s not _too_ pissed at her holo when it beeps, causing Gamora to start and lift her head to glance back at it. He probably couldn’t be that pissed either way, though. “Nebula?” 

She groans softly, pressing her forehead further against his neck the way she sometimes does when they have to get up earlier than she'd like, or when they get interrupted by one of the others. 

He smiles affectionately and smoothes a hand through her hair, then down over her back. “I mean, we don't have to look at it right now if you don't wanna. Anything urgent would come through the phones, not the holo. And there's not gonna be anything urgent.”

“If it's Nebula,” says Gamora, “I don't want to keep her waiting any longer than the poor service dictates necessary.”

“All right, that's fair,” says Peter, and waits for her to sit up...except that she doesn't. He does his best to not start laughing, practically brimming over with love for how adorably petulant she's being right now. “Um. Want me to read it to you, then?”

She nods, pressing a kiss to the side of his neck. “Yes, please.”

The nightstand is _just_ close enough for him to reach without jostling her too much, though it’s a bit of a struggle. He stretches his fingers as much as possible, inching the holo closer and closer until he can finally grasp it. “Aha!”

He can feel her smile against his skin. “You have conquered it.”

“As I conquer all things,” he says in his best Drax voice. 

“Felling a holo with your bare hands is an important stage in courtship.” 

Peter laughs; her Drax impression has always been shockingly good, but it never fails to delight him. “Thanks for the advice.”

“You’re welcome,” she says, going back to her normal voice. “Is the message from Nebula?”

“Oh, yeah.” He clears his throat, switching gears too, though he can’t keep the smile off his face. “First thing she says is ‘18.’ Updated kill count?”

“Yes,” Gamora says softly. “She has been busy.”

“Maybe she found a group of ‘em.” He’s savagely proud of Nebula and pleased that more people who, even indirectly, contributed in some part to Gamora’s pain, are gone now. 

“Perhaps.” 

“She also says: _I have heard that the Terran diet consists of only deep fried sugar._ Hey, not true...mostly.”

At that Gamora finally lifts her head, arching an eyebrow at him in clear disapproval. “Peter--"

He puts on his best innocent face. “It's not! Really! We eat--"

“No,” she interrupts. “I believe you. What I want to know is why _I_ have been on Earth for nearly a week and have yet to experience this _deep fried sugar._ ”

“Oh!” Peter blinks, pleasure spreading through him belatedly. She's lost so much of her humor, so much of her light since being gone that it almost feels new again, equal parts surprising and precious. “ _Right! _Right, of course! My bad. My horrible, _horrible___ oversight. We need to fix that immediately.”

“Yes, we do,” says Gamora, but then settles back against him, clearly not intending to move just yet, even for deep fried sugar. “Is there anything else in the message?”

“Right.” Peter looks back at the holo and realizes that he hasn't, in fact, made it all the way through. “A couple more lines. _I suppose the trip will be good for you, though you’ve never needed long to heal._ Aw, that's sweet.”

Gamora wrinkles her nose. “Nebula doesn't do sweet.”

“Uh-huh,” says Peter. “Like you don't do adorable.” He continues quickly, before she can protest. “One more line! _Tell your boyfriend that his hair is stupidly fluffy._ Hey!” Nebula insulting him isn’t exactly an uncommon occurrence, but his hair is _awesome_.

Gamora just laughs, breath tickling the side of his neck, entire body shaking with mirth against his.

* * *

He’s unable to procure fried sugar for her right away, but she graciously accepts the hotel’s free breakfast as a placeholder in the meantime, even though there’s no bacon.

Peter’s still pouting about that. 

 

“They shouldn’t even be allowed to call it breakfast without bacon,” he says, plopping a muffin onto his plate. The “complimentary breakfast buffet” is just an assortment pastries and fruit. The fruit pleases Gamora, so it’s not like it’s a bust, but they’ve only got so much time to get their fill of Terran food. 

“Bacon is delicious,” she agrees. “Though I was unaware it’s considered a requirement. What are we supposed to call breakfast back on the ship?” 

“It’s a requirement for breakfast on _Earth_ ,” he amends. “Or at _least_ hash browns, c’mon.”

She shakes her head, smirking as she piles more fruit onto her plate. “You certainly are a breakfast connoisseur.” 

“Thank you,” he says proudly. And then he spots it: at the end of the bar, a little separated from the rest, is a curious-looking machine. A slow grin spreads across his face as he realizes what it is. “Hey, babe--we may not have bacon or fried sugar, but how ‘bout some pancakes?”

She follows his gaze and tilts her head at the contraption. “That looks...dubious.” 

“What?” asks Peter, taking her free hand and swinging their arms before trying to usher her grandly toward the machine. “You liked the pancakes at Denny's! True, this one wouldn't have a bacon dick but hey! I'll draw you one out of syrup if you want.”

“Peter…” She relents, though, finally allowing him to steer her over into the vicinity of the machine. 

The thing looks vaguely like a shiny chrome box, no more than a couple of feet long, with a slot open in one side that exposes what appear to be tiny conveyor belts inside. He's never used or even seen one of these things in his life, but the outside is colorfully printed with pictures of pancakes, and features words promising that it will make fresh hot ones in under a minute. It seems too good to be true, but that just makes him want to try it even more. 

“Is that how the ones at Denny's were made?” asks Gamora, still sounding skeptical. 

“Probably!” Peter says brightly, though in truth he has no idea. Still, he wants to make her as comfortable with this as possible. “It's how pancakes are made on Earth!” Some of them, at least.

She leans close to examine it, as if searching for a nefarious agenda. “All right… Let’s try these ‘instant pancakes.’”

He pumps his fist. “If only they had peanut butter topping.” He examines it too, reading the directions. “ _Make sure batter level is sufficient_... I assume the hotel people put that in, but I don’t see any.”

“Perhaps you need to look inside.”

“Good point.” There’s a seam in the middle, so he attempts to open from there, first just casually lifting, then prying with both hands. “Stupid--thing--won’t--budge--ow!”

He yanks his hands away; the bottom of the machine is surprisingly hot, and the heat penetrated the bandage on his hand. 

“Are you okay?” Gamora asks with alarm, grabbing his wrist. 

“I’m fine, I’m fine,” he says, but lets her check his bandage. “That thing is out to get me.”

Apparently she’s decided he’s going to live, because she lets go of his hand and shakes her head. “Or you were looking in the wrong spot.” She points to the back section of the machine, a container labeled ‘batter.’ 

“Or it’s the batter that’s wrong,” he mutters, checking there and finding a large amount of a tan, goopy substance that reminds him of standing on a stepstool in the kitchen, sneaking his finger into the bowl his mother was holding to steal a bit of brownie batter. 

“Is it all right?” he hears Gamora ask distantly, but he’s still lost in memory. Thoughts of stealing his mother’s batter give way to the last time he thought about brownies on Earth. He’d been listening in on the doctors in his mother’s room, had heard them say that she’d stopped eating and was losing weight. Brownies, he’d thought, were the answer. Except he’d only sort of remembered how she’d made them, had ended up with batter that never thickened, no matter how long he stood there stirring and stirring until his arm hurt and there were tears running down his cheeks and his grandpa had--

“Peter.” Gamora rests a hand on his arm, slides it down to his wrist, squeezing very lightly. “You go somewhere in your head again?”

He shakes himself. “No! Nope. Nowhere. Batter’s fine, aside from being in a stupid place. Let’s get to making those pancakes!”

She sighs, clearly not believing him, but also not about to push too hard. “All right. The instructions say to put a plate beside the machine.”

“Here!” he says brightly, picking up a plate and spinning it on his fingertips. It stays balanced for roughly five seconds before tipping and falling. He narrowly manages to catch it before it can hit the floor and shatter, presenting it to Gamora with a mock-nonchalant grin, hoping he might be able to pretend he intended that all along.

“Smooth,” she teases, putting the plate neatly next to the machine. 

“I know.” He presses the ‘start’ button, managing not to topple the whole thing or burn himself again, though he’s a little concerned when it starts making a loud whirring noise. 

Gamora winces. “Is that normal?”

“Uh, yeah,” he says with false confidence. 

“It sounds like when Groot dropped a wrench in the engine Rocket was building.”

He snorts; Rocket had been so pissed. It was hilarious. “Well, you know. Earth tech.”

“I suppose.” She continues watching the machine closely. 

He watches it too, wondering at the strange mixture of decently-competent tech like the stuff Stark makes and things like _this_. Maybe it’s older, he thinks, though he doesn’t remember ever seeing one when he was last here. His mother never had one. Things probably would’ve been a lot easier for her if she had. She loved cooking but she just _couldn’t_ towards the end, and he certainly proved that he couldn’t, either. But if he could’ve just pressed a button to make food for her, instead of her having to stand up and cook when she should’ve been resting, maybe she’d have had more time. Or at least been happier with the time she had. 

“Something’s happening,” Gamora says quietly. 

He blinks, re-focusing, as a small, thin pancake slowly emerges from the side of the machine, falling neatly onto the plate. 

“It worked,” says Gamora, sounding equal parts impressed and still skeptical.

“It worked!” he echoes, much more enthusiastically. He pushes the button again, because obviously they’re going to need far more than just one pancake. The one they’ve got so far is absolutely puny compared to the ones at Denny’s and decidedly lacking in peanut butter flavor. But it’s still a pancake, and still only the _third_ Earth pancake he’s had in thirty years, so he’s not going to complain.

He stands in silence through the emergence of another pancake, and then a third, before it occurs to him that Gamora is, too. His thoughts stray back to his mother again, to the last few times she fought through cooking, pausing to sit every few seconds. She’d burned the grilled cheese sandwiches, he remembers, because she’d gotten too tired, started to drift off waiting, until smoke had come rising off the pan. 

Then he thinks of Gamora a few brief days ago, struggling to stand unassisted in the shower, curled in a shivering ball on the bed. Too weak to twist off the cap of a water bottle, let alone stand for god knows how long.

“You should go sit while I finish these,” he says immediately, guilt crawling up the back of his throat.

She glances out at the dining area, where a few other patrons are seated, then gives him a meaningful look. “No thank you.”

“Right,” he says, cursing the other people for being in here; couldn’t they take their food back to their rooms or something? 

Well, he can solve this, he thinks. “Just one second,” he tells her, then dashes over to the nearest empty table and grabs one of the chairs, ignoring the curious looks a couple of the strangers throw his way, which are nothing to the astonished look Gamora gives him when he brings it back and sets it behind her. 

“I am perfectly fine standing, Peter,” she says pointedly, an edge of impatience in her tone. She presses the ‘start’ button again when another pancake drops. 

“The chair is right there,” he says, trying to sound casual and reasonable. “And you need--”

She cuts him off, more than an _edge_ in her voice now. “You better not tell me I need rest.”

“Well, you _are_ supposed to be healing.”

“You are more physically unwell than I am right now,” she says, gesturing to his palm, and his knees, still bandaged beneath his pants. “I went hiking just a couple days ago. I walked around a gift shop and a museum. I am more than capable of standing for five minutes.”

Peter looks back and forth between her and the plate, feeling a frustrating mix of helplessness and shame. He shouldn't tip over into defensiveness, he _shouldn't_ , one of these days he’ll be strong enough not to. But apparently this isn't it, because by the time he realizes it, he's already falling back into his old pattern. 

“If each of those took a minute, then you’ve been standing for at least six,” he insists, pointing toward the pancakes like this is their fault. And it is, isn't it?

Gamora throws up her hands in exasperation. “And I am _fine._ ”

“Well,” says Peter, pushing the start button again, because clearly they need an entire mountain of pancakes to themselves, “I got you a chair. Might as well use it.”

“Oh,” she says tartly. “Okay.” She keeps her eyes fixed on him defiantly as she sweeps the chair up with her left hand, lifts it casually above her head and swings it around as though it weighs as much as a feather. 

“ _Gamora_ ,” he hisses. “What are you doing?”

“I’m using the chair.” She tosses it a few inches up, catching it easily with her other hand and spinning it almost like a basketball. 

“Baby, c’mon, be careful!” He watches with bated breath, not knowing what else to do beyond trying to snatch the chair out of the air, which might end up throwing her off balance. So he has no choice but to watch and wait for her strength to suddenly give out, or the shivers to start again, and for her to end up curled up on the ground in a ball because he didn’t take care of her like he should have. 

“Peter? _Peter_.” 

He blinks and Gamora’s cupping his cheek, expression full of alarm and concern. The chair is back on the ground somehow. 

“What’s wrong?” she asks. He curses himself when he realizes he’s started crying. 

“Nothing, nothing,” he says, turning his face away and swiping at his cheeks. “I’m fine.” He jabs at the ‘start’ button again, pressing it a lot harder than necessary. 

Her soft hand rests over his. “I think we have enough pancakes.”

“But I pushed start,” says Peter, feeling like he's screwing all of this up. His voice sounds young in his own ears and he winces at the fresh wave of memories that brings up -- staying in a hotel like this one with his mother, on the way back from their roadtrip. She'd been starting to fade then, he remembers suddenly. She'd gotten a headache so bad she'd had to pull over on the side of the road, and later that night had nearly fainted in the middle of the lobby as they'd been bringing their bags in for the night. 

He's been blocking out that part of the trip, he realizes. Hasn't thought about it until just now, the memories feeling impossibly fresh. Of course now they just want to keep coming, don't want to let him shove them back down. 

“Then we’ll have enough pancakes after this one,” says Gamora, a pointed edge in her voice that makes him think she's aware of how far away his thoughts are. 

He nods, keeping his eyes on the machine in the hope that that will keep him focused more on the present than the past—not that his present failures are really any better.

“Why don’t we take this back up to our room?” she suggests, rubbing his shoulder. 

“All right,” he whispers, then clears his throat. “Did you get everything you wanted?” 

“Yes,” she says. She grabs the plate of pancakes, balancing that, her own plate, a mini bottle of syrup, and two cups of orange juice. There she goes again, taking care of _him_ when it should be the other way around. He bites his lip to keep from saying anything like that, knowing full well how she dislikes it. 

“I can get that,” he says hastily, picking up his own plate and holding his hand out toward her.

“As can I,” she says, but allows him to take one of the cups. 

She starts toward the elevator without another word, carrying everything with perfect, steady grace. Still, he stays close behind her all the way, determined to be ready to act in a crisis that never comes.

* * *

The hotel’s fitness center is just about the absolute last place Peter wants to be.

Well, okay, that’s not _entirely_ fair. It’s much better than, say, being back on Titan. Or trapped inside an Infinity Stone that fancies itself some kind of Biblical hell. So yeah. Not the _absolute_ last place, but still not desirable. 

_Center_ is something of a misnomer; the place is barely more than a room with a few machines and a small assortment of weights. It’s also lacking any other people, which is one of the very few things it actually has going in its favor.

Still, he’s not really in the mood to work out, and he flat-out _hates_ the idea of Gamora doing it, though of course it was her idea to come here.

“This equipment is not terribly different than what we have on the Quadrant,” she notes, examining a treadmill. “Though it’s not as sophisticated.”

“Exactly,” Peter says, choosing to focus on the second part. “It’s super outdated, we should just go.”

“I am sure it will function perfectly well,” she says mildly, tossing a look over her shoulder. 

He decides to try his luck some more. “We’re basically on vacation. You don’t have to exercise on vacation.” 

“I _want to_ ,” she says impatiently. “As I have already told you. _You_ are welcome to do whatever you like, but I’m going to exercise.” 

With that, she marches over to the opposite wall, using it for support as she stretches her leg against it, crawling it up so she’s basically doing a split against it. 

He hurries to follow her, torn between anxiety and arousal. She always begins her workout routine with stretches; he’s seen it countless times over the years, and yet watching her showcase her flexibility never fails to make him drool. Of course, traveling down _that_ mental highway inevitably leads him to thoughts of the disaster that was last night, tipping the scales decidedly in favor of anxiety. 

Gamora turns to look at him over her shoulder as she switches legs. “You want to tell me what’s going on?”

“What?” Peter stammers, aware that he’s staring at her, though that in itself isn’t unusual. It’s been years and yet he still inevitably spends at least half their joint workouts just watching her. She’s mesmerizing even when she’s not trying, graceful and deadly and sexy as hell. That’s probably not what she means right now, though. “I’m--not exercising? Like I said?”

Shifting again, she balances on one foot, grabbing her other ankle with one hand to stretch the leg up behind her. She looks for all the world like a Terran ballerina--or at least he’s pretty sure he’s remembering that correctly. 

“I’m aware of that,” says Gamora. “But your heart rate just shot up even more, despite your lack of activity.”

Peter swallows, cursing himself silently. Of course she’d be able to tell. 

He sighs, considers before speaking. “I guess--I’m just--It’s kinda weird being back on Earth, you know? And this hotel kinda looks like some of the ones I stayed in with my mom. So….lots of memories.” It’s not untrue, though it is incomplete. Still, he’s not going to bring up last night again. He knows there’s no point, no answers.

“Oh.” She keeps holding her leg up longer than she normally would, as if she’s lost focus on her stretches. He’s worried that he said the wrong thing, but she’s looking at him with nothing but compassion. “Is that where your mind was before?”

“Yes,” he admits. “It’s hard not to think of her here.” That’s incomplete too, though. Gamora’s...condition, and his own failures, would probably have reminded him of those last few months with his mother no matter where they were, but he’s not about to bring that up either; not when he can already see guilt blooming across her expression. 

“Peter,” she says softly, finally letting her leg drop, though she otherwise stays where she is. “Is it too difficult for you to be back here? I know you have always been hesitant to return to Earth.”

“No,” he says immediately. “This whole road trip was my idea, wasn’t it?” He tries to muster up a smile, but it’s weak, though not because he’s lying. He really doesn’t regret it. As painful as it sometimes is to be back here, he finds that he likes seeing Earth again, likes that it seems to be helping her...if slowly. 

“Yes,” says Gamora. “But you often have ideas for the good of others that neglect to account for your own needs.”

He blinks, tries and fails to come up with a rebuttal for that. She's right, of course, like always. “I--well okay, yeah, sometimes. But that's not true now. You really think I wanna come back to Earth and only see Stark's dumb Compound? I mean, that dude could really use some advice on his interior decorating.”

“Peter,” she sighs, clearly not buying it for a minute. 

“Okay,” he says quickly, holding up his hands. “Okay, so--yeah, some of it is painful. But that doesn't mean I want to just forget. I wanna share it with you.”

Her expression softens. “And I want that too.”

“I sense a ‘but,’” he says, and actually almost _laughs_ when he thinks about how, any other time, he might immediately make a joke about a different kind of butt.

Gamora gives him a look, as if she knows exactly what he’s thinking. “ _But_ I want to make sure this isn’t all about me.” She finally moves now, closing the gulf between them until she can take his hand. “This is your home planet. And you went through a lot, too.”

He watches as their fingers twine together. “I’m doing exactly what I wanna be doing.” Which is the whole truth, or at least, it probably is. There is something else he thinks he maybe _should_ be doing, but every time thoughts of his grandfather cross his mind, like how old he’d be, if he’s even still alive, his heart rate skyrockets, panic seizing him for reasons he doesn’t understand or care to analyze. 

“Are you sure?” she asks, clearly hearing that change to his heartbeat too. 

“Yes,” says Peter. “Well, I mean aside from the fact that I'm apparently about to exercise. I don't really wanna be doing that. But I know how much you love my muscles, so I will do it for you.” He puffs his chest out dramatically. 

Gamora rolls her eyes, then pokes him in the sternum. 

Peter rocks back on his heels theatrically, then makes a noise like a balloon slowly deflating. 

She shakes her head, but he doesn't miss her little smile as she turns her attention to selecting a treadmill. Peter follows, inwardly giving himself a fist pump for that small success. 

There are three cardio machines--two he knows are treadmills and one that looks like some kind of simulated moving staircase thing. He climbs onto the middle treadmill because it's directly beside the one Gamora's chosen. Normally he'd much prefer to lift weights over running, but that would put his back to her. He is _not_ about to miss the view of his girl working out in the large floor to ceiling mirror that's in front of the cardio machines. 

Plus this way he’ll be right here if she needs help, he thinks as she turns her machine all the way up to its highest speed, then makes a noise of irritation at the limit.

“Terrans can’t run quite as fast as you,” he says, narrowly resisting the urge to tell her it’s probably not a bad idea to take it easier than usual. 

She smirks at him. “I don’t know. I’ve seen you run pretty fast when it’s your turn to do dishes.” 

“I’ll show you fast,” he says, turning up his treadmill, too. He instantly regrets it, even though he’s at maybe half the speed Gamora is. 

“I thought you didn’t even want to exercise,” she points out, legs moving effortlessly, so quickly they’re basically a blur. 

“Good point.” He decides to take the excuse and turn the speed down, noting that his knees vehemently disagree with this kind of movement. 

She apparently notices. “Are you okay? You don’t have to exercise just because I am.” 

“I'm fine,” says Peter. He continues for a few slower strides before deciding that his knees aren't getting any better and this is really boring aside from the excellent view. 

Hitting the pause button, he hops down off the treadmill, glancing around the room for something more enjoyable to do; a small control panel by a speaker in the corner catches his eye. “Hey! You know what we need? Music!”

“All right,” says Gamora, though it's clear that she's humoring him, still focused on her run. 

It only takes him a moment of fiddling with the tech before a catchy beat starts to play overhead. It's not a song he's ever heard before, probably one that was written after he left Earth. Still, he feels instantly better, tapping his foot for a few seconds before doing a little spin.

“Peter?” Gamora breaks in, looking gracefully back over one shoulder to meet his gaze. Her brow is furrowed in confusion, cheeks flushed with the exertion of her run. “Where did sexy go? And why does someone need to bring it back?”

He laughs. “Well, sexy must have left when I did, because me and you have brought it back!” She’s basically the definition of sexy, he thinks; all the time really, but especially now, with her skin all flushed like that, her ponytail swinging as she runs. Even her eye-roll is sexy. 

“I’m serious.”

“So am I!” He dances closer to her, skirting around the equipment. She gives him a look and he relents. “I don’t know. This song doesn’t sound familiar, I think it’s new.” 

There must be a billion new songs, a possibility that still makes his head spin. There’s a lot of new things on Earth; so much that he hadn’t known, and a lot he will probably never learn. 

He shakes his head, adding this to the list of things he doesn’t want to talk or think about right now. It’s not like this song is bad or anything, just different. He actually likes it.

Not nearly as much as _his_ music, but hey, not everyone can have the same good taste as him or his mother. 

“It’s not a terrible dancing song,” he says enticingly, moonwalking in front of her treadmill. 

“I am trying to exercise, Peter,” she sighs. 

“You can get plenty of exercise with my one-on-one dancing class!” He does his classic _Break It Down_ move. “And you’re in luck, I’m running a special: free for the most gorgeous woman in the galaxy!” 

“As enjoyable as dancing with you might be,” says Gamora, “no, it will not give me sufficient exercise. I require much more intense cardiovascular--"

“ _Might_ be?” Peter interrupts, feigning offense. He pauses in front of the treadmill again, continuing to gyrate his hips while pouting theatrically at her. “No maybe about it, baby! Dancing with me is always the greatest!”

“ _Peter_ ,” she groans, but can’t say much more than that because of the running.

The song changes then, to another one that he’s never heard before. This one has a stronger beat and lyrics that tell him to jump, so...who is he to argue? The next one is a song about especially truthful hips, which clearly means it’s time for some pelvic sorcery. He loses track after that, loses himself in the music and the movement which feels surprisingly good. 

He’s doing the running man to a song ordering everybody to dance now when he hears the treadmill beep, looks up abruptly and sees Gamora climbing off of the treadmill as it comes to a stop. 

“You okay?” he asks, freezing. He’s stopped watching her, he realizes belatedly. It’s possible he might have missed her needing him for something.

She gives him a look like he might have grown an extra limb. “Yes? I am finished running.”

“Oh!” He hurries to cross the equipment so he can fully take her in, scanning her for signs of trouble. She appears uninjured though, even free of trembling. She looks just like she normally does during a workout: gorgeous, strong, flushed, only just beginning to sweat. 

“Okay,” he says, forcing his eyes back to her face. “Do you wanna--go back to the room now? Or--?”

“I’ve yet to do strength training,” she points out, looking at him again like _he’s_ the one to be concerned about here. He supposes that after four years, she rightly expects him to know her workout routine, and he _does_ , despite his current distracted state. He knows it better than his own, because how could he not be distracted by her? ( _Is that your excuse for you letting yourself go?_ says a Rocket-like voice in his head.) 

“Right, right,” he says, attempting a casual tone. “I thought you might’ve just wanted cardio or something.”

She shakes her head, in response and in exasperation, and heads over to the weights on the other side of the room without a word. He follows, hovering as close as he dares when she picks up a barbell, the memory of her struggling to keep hold of two chopsticks coming to his mind unbidden. 

“Maybe you should start with those,” Peter blurts, pointing toward the rack of tiny hand weights. He’s going to piss her off, he knows, but that’s still better than letting her get hurt.

Gamora pauses, brow furrowed when she turns toward him again. “Is there something unique about Terran weights?”

“No,” he says quickly, though it’s tempting to lie. “No, I just--I don’t want you to over-exert yourself.”

“The heaviest weights here would _barely_ be exertion at all,” she counters.

He looks over at them, realizes that he would be utterly unable to lift them himself, and that she’s probably about to go pick out several to add to her bar. 

Quickly, he steps in front of the weight rack. “Not these! They look--um--I think they’re broken?” It’s a pathetic excuse and they both know it, but his heart is pounding again, and not from dancing.

“Oh,” says Gamora. “Okay. How about I do this, then?” She closes the distance between them lightning-quick, knocking him off his feet and scooping him up in a way that _really_ shouldn’t be possible, given the difference in their size. Still, the next thing he knows, she’s got him lifted over her head, moving his entire body casually, like he’s a rather light barbell.

A moment ago he was worried about her injuring herself lifting a fraction of his weight, yet he finds himself with absolutely no concerns that she’ll drop him, or let any other harm come to him this way.

He’s also kind of turned on. Especially when she starts slowly raising and lowering her arms, like she’s _actually_ lifting weights. 

“Gamora,” he says, still worried for _her_ despite his confidence in his own safety, and despite the fact that her arms are completely steady. “Are you sure this is a good idea?”

She doesn’t say anything; she just shifts so she’s holding him up with one hand in the middle of his back, the other dropped to her side. 

“Gamora!” he repeats, startled. He holds his body ramrod straight, not wanting his legs to sink and hurt her that way. “Whoa, whoa, okay! I get it, you’re still strong! You’ve made your point!”

“Good.” One second she’s holding him up with one hand, and the next she’s got both arms under him, lowering him down until he’s below her eye-level, practically cradled against her chest. She looks like she’s about to say something triumphant, maybe even an ‘I told you so,’ but she must see something in his face that changes her mind, because instead she says, “I heal quickly, Peter. You know that. And I promise I’m not going to over-exert myself, okay?”

That’s true, he knows. Of the two of them, he’s far more likely to bite off more than he can chew just to be stubborn. 

“Okay,” he makes himself say, despite the lingering doubts. He’s just going to have to learn to shove those to the side. It should be pretty easy now to divert his attention now, he thinks, looking up at her while she’s holding him in her arms. “You may continue using me as your barbell.”

“Perhaps if you held some of those weights it would actually be a workout.”

He lets out a genuine laugh, the teasing warmth in her tone doing more to assure him than any of the words she’s actually said. “I’d be happy to be of assistance.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> gawd these two have a lot of feelings


	16. Chapter 16

It’s already getting toward evening by the time they make it back out to the car, the hotel having threatened to charge them for another night’s stay if they didn’t check out immediately. That, at least, is nothing new. 

He’s lost count of the number of times he’s had to herd the others out of temporary accommodations, and how that’s always, _always_ an elaborate production. He’d thought _he_ was bad at getting up on time before he’d met Drax, but he’s pretty convinced now that the big guy could sleep through being buried in a literal avalanche. Groot’s been more interested in playing games than getting ready, and Rocket’s always tinkering with something. Mantis, for her part, tends to get so distracted by everyone else’s antics that she invariably forgets something of her own. Once she’d made it all the way out to the Benatar before realizing she’d left her boots in their Nova quarters. 

“Good evening, Mr. Star-Lord, Ms. Gamora,” says Knight Rider, as they slide into the seats. “What’ll it be tonight? On to Elmore City or...something else?”

“Hey,” says Peter. “I hear your judgment. I know what you’re implying.”

“I am a computer program,” says Knight Rider. “I do not utilize...what is the human word for it? Subtext.”

Peter snorts. “Uh-huh. Sure. You totally aren’t judging us for not going straight there.”

“I make no judgments,” Knight Rider says, in what is definitely a lofty tone. “Only helpful suggestions.”

He sighs and leans back in the seat, preparing to dive into casual-life-lesson mode. It’s how he subtly drops parenting moments on Groot without the kid even realizing it. “What you gotta learn, Knight Rider,” he says, “is that it’s not always about the destination; it’s about the journey.”

“Would you like me to drive you around in circles then?” Knight Rider drawls. 

Peter sputters and gestures at the dash. “You heard the judgment in that, right?” he asks Gamora. 

“Can we move on?” she asks, completely ignoring the question, because she obviously knows he’s right. 

“Fine, fine,” he grumbles. “No, Knight Rider, I do not want you to drive us around in circles. I want you to…” He glances around for inspiration. In truth, they had no plans to go anywhere besides Elmore City when they came down to the car, but now he can’t just let Knight Rider win. Besides, he thinks, as his eyes land on the bag of snacks in the back -- he’s got the perfect idea. 

“I want you to take us somewhere that has fried sugar.” 

Knight Rider is silent for a surprisingly long moment. 

“Hey,” says Peter, patting the dash. “Yoohoo! You awake?”

“I reiterate,” says Knight Rider, “that I am a computer program. I do not sleep.”

“Yeah, yeah,” says Peter, “and Gamora doesn't dance.”

He glances over expectantly and she shakes her head at him. 

“I am not sure how that is related to my functionality,” says Knight Rider. 

“Fine,” Peter says resignedly, sighing for dramatic effect. “Fine. So you weren't sleeping. Why didn't you respond?”

“My algorithm was trying to determine whether you were making a serious request,” says Knight Rider. “Or, as humans say, messing with me.”

“And what did you decide?” asks Peter.

“My algorithm did not have a chance to fully--"

“Wrong!” he interrupts gleefully. “I never make serious requests! But also I'm not messing with you. I really do want to go somewhere that has deep fried sugar.”

“I am sorry, Mr. Star-Lord,” says Knight Rider. “But there is nowhere of the sort in my databanks.”

“Bullshit,” says Peter. “That's just not possible. It's practically a Terran dietary staple.” Unless he’s just remembering _everything_ about this planet wrong, but he knows he’s eaten this type of thing with his mother before. He can see that Gamora is already trying to hide her disappointment; he can’t let her or her giant sweet tooth down. 

“I’ve found a recipe for how to make this deep fried sugar, but nowhere that serves it.”

Well, at least it exists. “You’re probably being too literal,” he tells the AI. “Expand your horizons, dude.”

“I have already checked every available--”

“Oh!” he interrupts, as the gaps in one of his memories fill. “What about a theme park or a carnival or something?” 

“There is a fair two counties over,” Knight Rider says immediately. “It serves a variety of fried substances, but not pure sugar.”

“Is there funnel cake?”

“Yes.”

“Ha!” he says triumphantly. “That’s deep fried sugar!” He grins at Gamora, who’s perked up. “We’re gettin’ you your fried sugar.”

“Nebula will be so proud.”

Knight Rider is determined to be a buzzkill, though. “Funnel cake is actually a batter--”

“This is why I told you to expand your horizons,” Peter says. “It’s fried sugar. Take us there.”

“Certainly,” he says, in a tone that’s definitely pouty. 

“Don’t be jealous, buddy.” Peter pats the dash. “Maybe we can find some sugar fuel for you.”

“That would be an extremely bad idea.”

* * *

It’s fully dark by the time they arrive at the fair. 

Driving--well, technically _riding_ as Knight Rider drives--at night is surprisingly pleasant. It feels reminiscent of being in space, particularly on country roads with very little light besides the stars overhead. 

The lights from the fair become visible on the horizon from nearly a mile away. The first thing Peter sees is the ferris wheel, looming large and multicolored and so painfully familiar that for a moment it actually makes his throat grow tight.

“Are you all right?” asks Gamora, resting her hand on his shoulder and rubbing gently. She must have heard the change in his breathing or heart rate again.

“Yeah,” he says honestly. “Just--thinking about my mom again. We used to go to the fair every year, as long as I can remember. Like, I’m pretty sure she took me there as a baby. She loved going on the rides because she said it made her feel like she was flying.”

“One _can_ fly,” Gamora points out. “With an aero-rig or similar device.”

Peter sighs. “Yeah, I know. But she never got to try any of that.” Or so many other things.

“Oh,” she says quietly. “I am sorry. I forgot you didn’t have that here.” 

“I know, it’s okay,” he says with a wan smile. 

“Flying was something she wanted to do?” 

He nods. “She’d have loved all the stuff I’ve gotten to do; flying, exploring other planets, hanging out with aliens.” He nudges her and she smiles indulgently. “She always wanted adventures.” 

“That looks pretty adventurous.” She’s pointing out the window to a tall, cylindrical structure that’s come into view. He can just make out the tiny dots swinging around it, what he knows to be people in seats. “Did your mother enjoy that ride as well?” 

“I think she would have,” he whispers, throat suddenly tight. “But she never...I don’t know if she ever got to do it. Certainly not with me.” 

“Why not?” she asks, hand moving from his shoulder to the back of his neck, stroking soothingly. 

He swallows, staring at it like it’s a specter. “I was afraid. She asked if I wanted to do it once and I said yes, but I chickened out at the front of the line. I started crying. She said she was glad I didn’t want to do it because she didn’t either. But I’m pretty sure now that she was lying.” 

“Oh, Peter,” Gamora says softly, leaning in even further so that her arm is wrapped around him, pressing a kiss to the side of his neck.

“What?” he asks, trying to sound casual, but swallowing hard. She’ll be able to hear that, of course. She can probably _feel_ the small shifts caused by the contractions of his muscles. Still, the instinct to hide something that feels like it ought to be shameful from her is too strong.

She sighs, though he thinks it’s sad rather than judgmental. “I know you have always been sensitive.”

He bristles reflexively. “I am not--”

Gamora silences him with a hand over his mouth. It’s a gesture that used to be familiar, given his tendency to babble when he gets upset or defensive. Now, though, he thinks it will forever remind him of that last private conversation on the Benatar, of the worst promise he’s ever had to make. He goes silent instantly.

“You have been,” she insists. “And I love that about you. As well as that you share it with me.”

Before he can respond, Knight Rider interrupts by cursing loudly. “For God’s sake, they expect me to park in the _mud_?”

“Wha--?” Peter blinks, surprised to discover that they’ve arrived at their destination. The fair itself is on their right, all its structures and flashing lights casting colors into the sky. On their left is the source of Knight Rider’s outrage: an empty field that is apparently serving as the parking lot, which he’s pretty sure is a staple across all fairs. This one _is_ more dirt than grass, though. 

“Dude,” he says, sniffling. Gamora still has her arm around him, but she’s pulled away a bit to take in their environment. “We were kind of having a moment here.”

“Oh.” Knight Rider sounds genuinely surprised. “My apologies. I must have been distracted by trying to direct my wheels through this sludge. This is worse than that motel parking lot.”

He sounds so petulant that, not for the first time, Peter finds himself laughing at the sheer absurdity of it. Gamora joins him, swiping at his cheek with her thumb to catch the tears that the sudden emotional release make impossible to hold back. 

“You may continue your moment now,” Knight Rider says after they’ve parked. 

Peter snorts. “Gee, thanks, man. But that’s not really how moments work.” He exchanges a glance with Gamora, who’s looking at him with such a soft smile that it steals his breath -- even more so when she leans in to press her lips to his. 

“I love you,” he breathes, when she pulls back ever so slightly, her forehead still resting against his. He hesitates for a moment, then decides that there really aren't any other words to describe how he feels. And these are _theirs_ , dammit. He's taking them back. “I love you more than anything.”

Gamora leans back farther for just a second, smiling radiantly at him. Then she's kissing him again, more deeply, half in his lap as her hands run down over his sides, then up under the hem of his shirt. He cards his fingers into her hair and suddenly he's not in the past anymore, not thinking of his mother or missed opportunities, only this moment, only--

Knight Rider makes the throat-clearing sound Peter's grown accustomed to reading as disapproval. “Mr. Star-Lord? What are you doing?”

Gamora pulls back again and presses one hand over her mouth, her shoulders shaking with silent laughter. 

“Um,” says Peter. “Kissing my girl?”

“ _Here?_ ” Knight Rider asks pointedly. 

Peter shrugs. “I mean...yeah? You're a car. People make out in cars all the time. It's basically one of your jobs.” It is weirder when said car happens to be sentient, he’ll admit. 

“I can find _be a location for kissing_ in no formal definitions of motor vehicle.” 

“That was a very pointed omission of _informal_ definitions, wasn’t it?” He’s met with silence. “Ha! I knew it.” 

Gamora’s shaking her head, still smiling with mirth. “Peter.” 

“What?” he asks innocently. “Knight Rider’s trying to come up with excuses, when we both know he’s just a prude.” 

“I assure you, I have seen far worse from Mr. Stark and Ms. Potts.” 

“Then you’d think you’d be used to it,” Peter mutters, leaning in to kiss Gamora again through their grins. 

“In this very vehicle, in fact,” Knight Rider continues, causing Gamora to pull away and burst into honest to goodness _giggles_. 

“Well, gross. Thanks for that TMI, bud,” Peter says, though Gamora’s amusement means he’s not actually irritated. 

“You’re welcome, Mr. Star-Lord.” 

“That was sarcasm,” Peter informs him, because he's a helpful person. 

“I am aware, Mr. Star-Lord,” Knight Rider says flatly, which causes Gamora to start laughing all over again, though she tries to hide it behind one hand. 

He considers for a moment, eager to milk this for all it's worth. “So...who do you think is a cuter couple, Knight Rider? Stark and Potts or me and Gamora?”

“Surely you wouldn't ask me to speak badly of my maker, Mr. Star-Lord,” says Knight Rider. 

Peter shrugs. “I mean, it depends. For example, my old man was a _huge_ asshole. My mom, though. Anyone who says a bad word about her can look forward to a face full of fists.”

“Peter,” says Gamora, in the tone that means she thinks this conversation is moving from entertaining into bad ideas territory. 

Still, he's committed now. “Okay, so maybe they're decent people. But who's better looking, though?” He leans over to stage-whisper to Gamora. “It's a trick question because you're the most gorgeous woman in the galaxy. Wait, no. Universe.”

“I am a computer program,” says Knight Rider. “Not a pageant judge.”

“That means us,” Peter says, still in the fake whisper. “He just doesn’t want Stark to find out he thinks that.” 

“You may believe whatever you wish, Mr. Star-Lord.” 

Gamora puts her hand on his arm before he can reply. “I think that’s enough antagonizing the car for now.” 

“All right, all right.” He releases her from his arms so she can slide back into her seat right as their doors pop open. “But don’t think this is over, Knight Rider.” 

“I wouldn’t dare, Mr. Star-Lord,” he says, before the car shuts off. 

Peter quickly slides out and jogs over to Gamora’s side, but she’s already up and out by the time he gets there. “He loves us.” 

“I am sure he does,” she says placatingly, then turns more serious when she takes both his hands in hers. “Are you okay? With going to this—“ She glances back at the grounds, where there’s a large sign over the entrance. “—Corn Festival?” 

“I’m fine,” he promises, lifting one of her hands to kiss the back of it. “Most of my memories of fairs are good. Besides, we gotta get you that fried sugar.” 

“Not at your expense,” she insists, and she sounds so goddamned earnest that it nearly breaks his heart all over again. 

Peter shakes his head, gently resting one hand under her chin until she looks back up at him. “I want to do this with you. Doing it with you would make me happy. I mean, unless you don't want to? If there's too many people, I could--"

“No,” she says firmly. “We came here to do this together, we're going to do it together.” 

She takes his hand and sets off toward the fair. It's a bit of a walk, and the ground _is_ sort of muddy, he has to admit. But he's more aware of the smell--fresh, wet earth and sun-warmed grass, a deep sweetness that instantly takes him back to lying in a field with his mother, sharing headphones and music and laughter. 

The next thing he knows, they're at the entry gate, and he's reflexively handing over Stark's credit card again in exchange for a pair of armbands that promise unlimited rides. He tenses for a moment as Gamora takes hers, but between the darkness and the multicolored lights, no one is paying any attention to her.

The people walking around in face paint probably help, too. There’s even one guy dressed as a giant ear of corn. 

“Are fairs similar to Wal-Mart?” she asks quietly as they walk away from the gate and into the rest of the fair. She’s looking around at all the people, all focused on their drinks or food or the flashing lights, either not noticing or caring about an alien in their midst. 

“Well, maybe in some ways,” Peter says, reaching for her hand. She laces their fingers together without hesitation and he grins. “But way more fun. What do you wanna do first?” 

She shifts her focus from the people to the environment. The area they’re walking through now contains a couple cars and tractors that he supposes are for sale, but they’re heading towards a fork in the path where they’ll either have to go towards the rides or the food stands. “Is there a customary order of things?” 

He shrugs, but follows her gaze, trying to figure out if she has a preference she isn’t sharing. “Not really… How ‘bout we find that fried sugar?”

“Okay,” she says, eagerness clear in her voice. “If that is what you want.”

“It is!” says Peter, and his enthusiasm is genuine. The sights and sounds and smells of the fair are making him crave funnel cake like crazy, now that he's remembered it exists. Plus he can't wait to see her reaction, immeasurably grateful that she's regained most of her enthusiasm for even something as seemingly simple as food.

Steering them toward the food carts, he swings their joined hands a bit. Gamora turns and raises an eyebrow, but she doesn't comment or pull away. 

“Whoa!” Peter stops short when they reach the area with the food. It's far more extensive than he remembers, or maybe this is just a bigger fair. He remembers funnel cake and corn dogs and turkey legs on a stick, but this place seems to have fried _everything_.

Funnel cakes, sure--classic, and chocolate, and topped with several different kinds of fruit. But they also have fried cookies, and candy bars, and even fried _butter._

Gamora is staring at it too, an expression of pure wonder on her face. “Nebula _was_ right.”

“I guess she was,” he mutters, taking it all in. Apparently fried sugar has become a lot more popular over the last thirty years. He can’t wait to rub it in Knight Rider’s face. 

Then he catches sight of another cart and gasps. 

“Gamora,” he hisses, nudging her and pointing excitedly to a food cart called _Everything is Chocolate_ , serving chocolate covered nuts, pretzels, corn for some reason, and best of all: bacon. 

Her eyes go wide, her jaw slackens a bit; if she had less self-control, he’s sure she’d be drooling. “Terra,” she says slowly, turning to him with that look of wonder still on her face, “is a beautiful place.” 

“I told you!” He chuckles, more focused on how adorable she’s being than the food. He wants her to try everything, though, to keep that expression on her face as long as possible. “Where do you wanna start?”

“There are so many,” she says, practically reverent. She looks this way and that, appearing utterly overwhelmed by the choices. 

“Okay,” he says. “How ‘bout we start with the funnel cake, then see where our hearts take us after that?”

“All right,” says Gamora, clearly trying to conceal her excitement. 

Squeezing her hand again, Peter leads her toward a booth that appears to just be called _Funnel Cakes._ Nice and straightforward, which he decides he likes. 

The menu, however, isn't quite as straightforward. They have the classics, of course, but they also offer cakes with half a dozen different toppings, none of which he's tried before in this combination. In the end, he orders one of everything, which means that they end up with one classic, one chocolate, and three topped with strawberries, cherries, and cinnamon apples, respectively. He hasn't thought about how he's going to transport the things, but luckily Gamora has no problem carrying one in each hand, plus balancing a third on her forearm as they make their way over to the picnic table seating. 

As they sit, he catches sight of a woman a few tables over, head bowed toward her plate. At first he thinks he's seen wrong, or maybe that he's seen a ghost. But he hasn't, he realizes as he continues to watch. The woman’s head is completely bald, evident even in the low light, and he feels his breath catch on the sudden lump in his throat. 

“Peter? Are you okay?”

He tears his eyes away from the woman at Gamora’s soft voice, and her hand on his arm. He’s still holding one of the funnel cakes, hovering a few inches above the surface of the table, too distracted to set it down. 

“I’m fine, sorry,” he says, quickly adding the last plate to the massive assortment of them on the table. It’s no use, though; he can’t stop himself from looking over at the woman again, and Gamora follows his gaze. 

“Oh,” she says quietly, that one word full of understanding and sadness, because of course she’s made the connection. He’s told her all about those last few months of his mother’s life, how she lost her hair because of the cancer treatment. 

“I’m fine,” he repeats, trying to shake himself out of it. They’ve got a whole assortment of fried sugar in front of them that he should be focusing on, but he just keeps watching that woman. He half expects a boy to come running up to her at any moment, begging her to go on the tilt-a-whirl with him and grandpa, then for her to say that she’s sitting this one out, she’s just a little bit nauseous, she’ll do the next one. 

But of course that doesn’t happen. 

“Funnel cake!” Peter says with forced brightness, turning his attention back to the food yet again. He picks up one of the plastic forks they were given and stabs it into the plain funnel cake. “Let’s start with the classic.”

He uses the fork to chop off a good-sized chunk, eating it with more gusto than he feels. The taste is an instant rush of nostalgia, an overwhelming mix of joy and longing for his mother, for half a dozen things he knows are impossible to ever recapture. He swallows with effort, the lump in his throat even bigger now.

When he turns to offer a bite to Gamora, she’s looking at him with an expression he _knows_ means they’re going to have to talk about this before she’ll let them move on.

He sighs. “I just--I thought--I know Earth’s technology is behind the rest of the galaxy, but it’s been thirty years! I guess I thought maybe, you know, medical tech would have solved cancer.”

She nods. “It is unfortunate. And difficult for you to see and remember, I imagine.”

“Yeah,” says Peter. “And--And also, I can’t help wondering what my mom would think of me now, if she could be with us here.”

“What do you mean?” she asks, hand already on his shoulder, ready to comfort. 

He struggles for a moment, trying to decide how much to say here, whether he should be honest or avoid bringing up any painful topics… Kind of difficult to avoid painful topics, he supposes. 

“If she’d be disappointed,” he says at last, avoiding her eyes. “In everything I did. Everything I failed to do. That I… That I swore on her name that I’d--” He cuts himself off, still having trouble reliving that memory, or even saying the words.

Gamora’s got her arm around him immediately, cupping his face with her other. “Peter,” she whispers, sounding absolutely distraught. “Peter, I’m sorry. I’m so sorry I asked you to do that.” 

He has to squeeze his eyes shut to keep it together. This is exactly what he didn’t want: to make her feel bad. 

“No, ‘Mora, it--”

“Don’t tell me it’s okay,” she says, quiet but fierce. “I know how important your mother is to you, and I took advantage of that. Your mother would be horrified at me, but she’d be nothing but proud of you, okay?”

He finally snaps his head up and meets her gaze. “She wouldn’t be horrified at you. At all. My mother would _love_ you.” 

“An alien?” asks Gamora, sounding incredulous, though they’ve had very similar conversations plenty of times before. 

“Uh, _yeah_ ,” says Peter. This is his part in the conversation, comforting in its familiarity, though also more bittersweet than usual here on Earth, practically in the midst of a memory come to life. “A super cool, gorgeous, badass, sexy, heroic alien. An alien who’s saved the whole galaxy, like, at least half a dozen times.”

She offers him a shy smile, at least not disagreeing with that. “Well, then she would have to think the same about you. I mean...minus the alien part.”

“Minus _half_ the alien part,” says Peter, giving her his own smug grin. 

Gamora shakes her head, but then points toward the table where the other woman was sitting. Peter follows her gaze, sees that she’s surrounded by two other women now, and that their heads are bald too. The three of them are laughing as they share an enormous mountain of something covered in cheese and ketchup. 

“Wait,” says Peter, watching, his heartrate accelerating again. “They can’t _all_ \--”

“They appear to be celebrating,” says Gamora, nodding toward the first woman’s shirt.

_’I beat cancer,’_ it says in large letters that he’s failed to notice before.

“Oh!” He laughs with a sense of relief that’s surprisingly strong, considering he’s never even spoken to that woman. “Maybe Earth medical tech _has_ advanced a bit over the years.”

“I bet it has,” she says, rubbing his shoulder. “The sickness appears to be conquerable now.”

“It was back then, too,” he says quietly. “The chances were just really small. None of the treatments were guaranteed.” 

And it might be the same now, he realizes; perhaps this woman is just part of a small percent who survived. Or perhaps her tumor wasn’t given to her by a celestial being who only wanted to use her for his quest to take over the universe. But still, he can’t help wondering if his mother’s chances might have been better if she’d had access to more advanced tech. It’s something he’s thought about a lot as he’s learned how much more advanced the rest of the galaxy is. 

“You know,” he says a bit absently. “There’s some parts of my life I’m glad my mom didn’t have to see… Like, basically everything with the Ravagers. But I wish she could’ve seen all this--” He gestures to the assortment of funnel cakes laid out before them. “And some other stuff. Like, I’m basically a galactic space hero-slash-cowboy. She’d have thought that was the coolest thing she’d ever heard.”

Gamora nods solemnly. “There are many parts of my life I am glad my mother was spared. But I often think that her last thoughts must have been filled with fear and despair, and I wish she could know that my life turned out well, in the end. That I have so many things for which I am grateful.”

“Gamora,” he breathes, the ache in his chest taking on a whole new dimension. He knows she has similar thoughts about the life that was stolen from her mother, that that shared grief was one of the first things that brought them together. Yet it seems somehow even more poignant now, here, knowing that she still treasures this life that has literally taken her to hell and back. 

“When I first realized I was in the soul realm,” says Gamora, her voice soft but surprisingly resolute, “I thought that I might find my mother there. Or yours. I knew, from my searching, that many believed the Stone to contain the souls of those who have died. But it doesn't. Only those given as sacrifice to it. Thankfully.”

“Thankfully?” he repeats; he figured she’d have wanted company. 

She looks as surprised by the question as he feels. “I wouldn’t wish that place on anybody. Certainly not our mothers.”

Not for the first time -- not even for the first time this _week_ \-- he’s utterly in awe of what a good person she is. All he can do is lean in and kiss her, her tiny startled noise muffled against his lips before she returns the kiss enthusiastically. 

“Have I told you I love you yet today?” he asks when they pull apart, leaning his forehead against hers. 

She smiles a bit breathlessly. “Maybe. Wouldn’t hurt to hear it again, though.”

“I love you,” he says vehemently. 

“I love you, too.” She touches his cheek, searching his eyes for something. “Are you all right?”

“Yeah, I’m all right,” he says, turning his attention back to the task in front of him. “Or I will be, as soon as you finally try this fried sugar!”

After another second of studying his expression, she apparently decides he’s not in imminent danger of another sadness attack, because she picks up her fork and digs into the funnel cake. “I _have_ been neglecting it.” 

“Make sure you get some with the powdered sugar,” says Peter, watching her. “That’s the white stuff.” It’s not like powdered sugar is so rare in space that she wouldn’t know what it is, but he’s going to be absolutely thorough in his role as fair food connoisseur and guide.

Gamora arches an eyebrow. “Sugar on top of sugar, then?”

He grins. “Exactly! What else would you top your deep-fried sugar with?”

“I don’t know,” says Gamora. “Fat?”

He snorts, surprised at how light he feels now, in the aftermath of the sadness that was creeping in just a few moments before. It feels like closure, somehow. Not _everything_ in full circle, maybe, but at least this one part of it. “Fair point.”

Satisfied with the bite she’s selected, she finally puts it into her mouth. For a moment she just holds it on her tongue before she starts slowly chewing, making a noise of pleasure loud enough that he can hear it over the ambient sounds of the fair. 

Peter opens his mouth for an _I told you so_ , then closes it again as he realizes what he really needs to do. 

“Hold it,” he instructs, digging in his pocket for the phone and pulling up the camera function. “Stay just like that.”

Gamora obliges him long enough to let him take several photos, then swallows and opens her eyes, giving him a curious look. “A souvenir?”

“Not for me,” says Peter, showing her the pictures. “For Nebula.”

* * *

She’s on her second helping of chocolate-covered bacon by the time they make their way out of Deep Fried Boulevard. Well, technically it’s _their_ second helping, but Peter basically tapped out after the fried cheese, so Gamora’s taking one for the team and finishing off the bacon. 

“Perhaps this wasn’t the best idea,” she says, eyes on the rides they’re headed towards. She seems particularly wary of the pendulum one that swings nearly all the way upside down. Not that it stops her from popping another piece of bacon in her mouth. 

He waves his hand dismissively. “Nonsense! Eating so much your stomach hurts then going on a bunch of rides is a fair tradition!” 

Gamora wrinkles her nose. “I have no wish to make myself ill. Or for you to do the same.”

“Well, you’re in luck,” he says, swinging his arm around her shoulders and steering her off to the left, where a booth full of flashing lights and large, stuffed toys has caught his attention. “I’ve got the perfect way to kill time ‘til our stomachs settle!” 

She glances back and forth between him and the booth they’ve stopped a few feet in front of. Inside it, there are several stacks of glass bottles and baskets full of white, plastic balls with holes in them. 

Peter points to the large, stuffed teddy bears hanging on the top of the booth. “Want me to win you one of those?”

“What are they?” asks Gamora, taking half a step closer and shading her eyes against the flashing lights. She's seen stuffed toys before, because it's not like those are unique to Earth. But teddy bears in particular are. In fact, he's pretty sure she's never seen any kind of bear. 

“Teddy bears!” he says brightly, though he's aware that probably means nothing to her at the moment. He takes a deep breath, focusing himself. “So, a bear is a type of Earth predator. They live in the woods, and they climb trees and um...they really like honey.”

Gamora arches an eyebrow. “Predators that eat honey?”

He nods, trying to remember. “Yeah, well...they have to fight the bees for it, I guess?”

She looks skeptical of this, but nods charitably. “Go on.”

“So these are toy ones,” says Peter. “Like, cute versions for kids to sleep with.”

“Terran children sleep with toy predators?” asks Gamora. “I approve of this custom.”

Peter grins. “Does that mean you want me to win you one?”

“I do want to experience your Terran traditions,” she says, sounding more indulgent than actually interested, but he’s determined to win her one anyway. “How does one win a teddy bear?” 

“Looks like all you gotta do is knock some bottles over,” he says, approaching the front of the booth where there’s a man in a vibrant, pin-striped uniform, a large top hat, and a grin that puts Peter a little on edge. 

“That’s right!” he practically shouts. “Five bucks gets you three chances. If you knock over all six, you win one of the big ones for this lovely lady.” He points up at the teddy bears, then blinks at Gamora in surprise. Peter tenses, preparing for him to say something, but all he does is look back at Peter and hold out one of the small baskets full of three balls. 

There’s something suspicious in the dude’s demeanor, like he’s running a con, but Peter shakes it off; he’s probably just used to scamming scrawny teenage boys who think they’re stronger than they actually are. How hard can it be for a full-grown -- totally muscular -- man to knock over a couple glass bottles?

“Easy,” Peter says dismissively, handing over Stark’s card and waiting for the dude to run it in a small machine that looks like a calculator before picking up one of the balls. 

“How many tries you want?” the man asks, waggling his eyebrows in a way that isn't quite suggestive. Now he clearly is trying to hustle, but he's not doing a very good job of it. If Peter was feeling more charitable he might give the guy a lesson but, well. 

“Like I'm gonna need more than one,” he scoffs. 

Stripe Man--as Peter’s decided to refer to him--shakes his head in a way that's probably meant to imply impending regret, but mostly just looks dumb because of the way his hat flops around. 

“Actually,” says Peter, “I don't even know that I need balls. Though of course I have excellent ones.” He giggles a bit at the reference to himself and _balls,_ but then decides he needs to get his head in the game. 

He turns toward Gamora for a moment just to make sure she's watching, then takes an enormous breath and blows it out toward the pyramid of bottles with all his might. They don't even wobble a bit. 

“Ah yes,” Gamora deadpans. “As one might expect for a ball-less performance.”

Peter snorts, then says to Stripe Man, “I’ll do the five for three thing.”

“You got it,” he says, doing a very poor job of holding in laughter. 

The balls are super light, and Peter is beginning to understand why this is a hustle. Still, it’s a simple task; he doesn’t lose any confidence. 

At least, not until he throws the first ball, hits the pyramid smack in the center, and manages only to shake them slightly. 

He clears his throat. “Okay, I guess I’m gonna have to actually try.” The second ball hardly makes more progress than the first, however; the bottles remain stubbornly stacked upright. 

“Perhaps these balls come cheap for a reason,” Gamora says, her hand resting on his back, smirk playing at her lips in response to her own joke; she’s too adorable for words. 

And he’s gonna win his girl a prize, dammit. 

He tosses the ball up once, contemplating. He almost pictures the bottles as Thanos, so he can use his anger to motivate his upper body strength, but even just the thought of his face makes his heart race unpleasantly, the memory of him holding Gamora by the neck playing before his eyes.

That’s a little too much motivation, he decides, picturing Stripe Man’s face as the bottles instead. He winds his arm back as far as he can and throws the ball with all his might.

The top bottle wobbles, tilts, and falls off the stack, but the other five remain. 

“Hey!” says Peter, turning to Stripe Man. “Is this thing rigged?”

Stripe Man claps a hand over his heart, looking a theatrical level of horrified. “My dear sir! Are you questioning my integrity?”

He's about to confirm that yes, in fact, he is. But then Gamora rests a hand on his arm, and he turns to see the apprehension in her face. He feels approximately one half second of defensiveness before realizing that she just doesn’t want another scene. Okay, he can roll with that. Or he can at least give it a few more tries at playing by the rules before totally busting the guy.

He shakes his head, turning his own charm back on. “Nah. Just--wow, those sure are some strong bottles!”

“Does that mean you’d like another turn?” asks Stripe Man.

“Hell yeah!” says Peter, keeping his tone light and easy. He might try to haggle more if it was his money being spent, but right now it’s Stark’s, so he hands over the card again without any hesitation. 

He picks up the first of his new set of balls--and with only a tiny smirk at that to boot--and holds it up to his lips. “Okay, baby. Don’t let me down.”

“Oh,” says Stripe Man, before he has a chance to throw. “Do you always give pep talks to your balls?”

Peter narrows his eyes at him, unamused; that kind of teasing is reserved for Gamora, and maybe the rest of the team. 

Though Gamora seems to find it funny, if her poorly-suppressed smirk is any indication. 

“Well, you do sometimes,” she points out in a whisper. 

He laughs, because _she_ is allowed to tease him like that. 

“Sometimes you gotta,” he tells Stripe Man, then lobs this ball at the re-stacked pyramid, since apparently he has to start over with every purchase. 

Still, only a wobble.

“Perhaps this isn’t the best idea with your injured hand,” Gamora says, voice suddenly tinged with concern. 

“Oh, good point!” he says, picking up the next ball with his other hand. “This hand is totally weaker right now.”

She sighs. “That’s not really what I meant.”

“C’mon, I’m so close!” Peter says, letting out a cheer when he manages to knock the top bottle off. Gamora waves her hand in a ‘well, go on then’ gesture. 

He tosses the ball up and down in his hand a couple times for good luck, then throws it with all his might. 

Somehow, only one more bottle falls down. 

“You’ve gotta be kidding me,” he mutters, glaring daggers at the stubborn bottles that remain. 

“I think we’ve had enough of this game,” Gamora says, stroking his back soothingly. 

“You sure?” Stripe Man says in a cajoling voice. “I’ll give you one more shot at the same stack for another dollar.” 

“Yes!” says Peter, before Gamora can turn down that offer. He might be frustrated, the game might be unfair, but he’s _going_ to get her one of those bears, damn it. He’ll do it if he has to throw until he’s blue in the face. He’ll do it if it costs Stark a million dollars, which he’s guessing would just be scratching the surface of noticeable.

“Excellent!” says Stripe Man, making the exchange.

Peter takes the newest ball and tries to pretend that it’s an Infinity Stone, tries to remember that feeling of power coursing through him, nearly too much to bear. He pictures the power shooting out of his hand, arcing through the air, obliterating the bottles and--This ball flies over the top of the stack, because he’s been so caught up in his imagination that he’s forgotten that one was already gone.

“Damn it!” he exclaims, frustration boiling over into true anger. Gamora puts her hand on his arm again, but he pulls away, turning back to Stripe Man. “Keep going, I’ll keep paying. One ball, one dollar.”

Stripe Man considers for a moment, then nods. “All right, but just ‘cause I like you. You got a pretty girl, and a weird sense of humor.”

“That I do,” he says, proud but still tense. 

Gamora just shakes her head next to him, clearly exasperated, but she’ll change her mind once she’s holding a giant teddy bear. 

However, when several more tries go by with no more than one more bottle knocked down, he’s starting to think this game might be more _impossible_ than simply rigged. It takes a lot of effort to keep from throwing one of the balls at Stripe Man’s head. 

“This stupid game is rigged,” he mutters angrily, after another of his balls sails over the stack of bottles. 

“Then perhaps you should stop playing it,” Gamora says, tone more a command than a suggestion. 

“But--”

“Peter,” she says firmly, arms crossed over her chest. “This is getting out of hand.” 

He clenches his fist around the ball in his hand, trying not to see it as another way he’s failed her. “I guess you’re right.”

Her voice is more gentle when she says again, “Peter? Is the bear really that important to you?”

“No,” he says, sounding petulant even to his own ears. “I just wanted to win it for you, that’s all.”

“Well, you’ve got enough for one of the small prizes,” Stripe Man says, pointing to the large assortment of dinky stuffed animals behind him, none of them bigger than a fist. 

“I don’t want a small prize,” says Peter, fully aware that he’s whining now. Stripe Man reminds him of a Ravager, he realizes. And this setup reminds him of the way they used to test their cons on him, claiming it to be an innocent game. It didn’t take him long to catch on, but he’s got enough embarrassing memories to last a lifetime.

Gamora looks back and forth between him and Stripe Man, seems to sense what admitting defeat would mean for him, then sighs. 

“One more ball,” she tells Stripe Man, holding out a hand. There’s a steely edge in her voice that’s very evident to Peter, but probably not to anyone else.

Stripe Man grins again. “For you, darlin’? This one’s free.”

Peter is about to step in with a comment about flirting with _his_ girl, but Gamora gives him a look that makes the words dry up in his throat. She’s all razor focus as she crouches down a bit, examining the structure of the remaining bottles before choosing her angle. She doesn’t wind up her arm, doesn’t make any overt show of strength, though Peter _knows_ the power behind her movements. When she sends the ball flying, it smashes cleanly through the bottom of the pyramid, shattering the three bottles there and sending the two on top tumbling down.

Stripe Man is gaping at her when she turns to him.

“Bear,” Gamora orders, holding out her hand again, the same way she did to receive the ball.

Stripe Man blinks, takes a second to pick his jaw up off the floor, then hurries to do what she’s said, as though suddenly afraid she might put a ball through _him_ next. “Yes, yes, all right, congratulations, here you go, now time to go enjoy the rest of your fair!”

“Thank you,” she says in her sweetest voice.

Handing the bear to Peter, Gamora waggles her eyebrows at him. “Does this make me a good Terran boyfriend?”

Peter hugs the toy and laughs, most of the tense frustration melting away at the sheer amount of love he feels for her. “Nah. Just makes you the most amazing woman in the universe. As always.”


	17. Chapter 17

“I’ve never heard this song before,” Peter says skeptically, after it gets through the first chorus. He narrows his eyes at the dashboard. “Are you sure this is 70s, Knight Rider?”

“Of course I am sure,” the AI says, sounding miffed. “The song is _Ride Captain Ride_ by Blue Images, released in 1970.”

“Well, you were wrong about there not being any fried sugar, so.”

“I was _not_ wrong. As I told you several times, funnel cakes are made out of a batter --” 

“Fried. Sugar.”

“Ignore him, Knight Rider,” Gamora says. “He just likes winding you up.”

“I assure you, I cannot be _wound up_.” 

Peter laughs, letting his foot bop along to the beat now that he knows it’s really a 70s song. “Your tone tells a different story, bud.” 

Knight Rider, apparently taking Gamora’s advice, ignores him and just says, “We are approximately one mile from the destination.”

“Oh, don’t pout,” Peter says, patting the dash. “It’s a good song. I mean, it can’t be _that_ good, if my mom never played it for me, but it’s got a nice beat.”

Gamora just shakes her head, busy munching on leftover kettle corn from the fair. As much as they wanted to bring home a bag full of funnel cakes, they could only choose non-perishable items, so they’d gone with the popcorn. Plus, of course, the teddy bear, now named Chewie, sitting on top of their bags in the back. 

“According to my optic sensors, Mr. Star-Lord,” says Knight Rider, “the one currently pouting is you.”

“No I’m not!” says Peter, honestly unaware of his expression. He runs one hand over his face, like that might somehow elucidate things for him. Okay, to be fair, his lower lip _is_ kind of protruding, and his forehead technically _is_ furrowed, but...he’s still definitely not pouting. “Your sensors are wrong.”

“Mr. Stark programmed my optic sensors to function at 99.999% accuracy, Mr. Star-Lord,” Knight Rider says placidly. “Far more reliable than the human eye.”

“Yeah?” Peter challenges. “Well how ‘bout the half-human, half-Celestial eye, then, huh?”  
“Peter,” Gamora sighs. “You know it’s okay to let other people be right sometimes, don’t you?”

“Of course,” Peter says easily. “I love it when _you_ are.”

“I have no viable comparisons in my database,” says Knight Rider.

“Hah!” Peter pumps a fist in the air. “That means I win.”

“If you say so.” Gamora shakes her head, which draws Peter’s gaze back to her. 

She looks practically radiant in the mid-morning light, filtered through the not-quite-tinted glass of Knight Rider’s windshield. She also looks remarkably relaxed in jeans and one of the Star Wars shirts they acquired at Wal-Mart, her hair twisted in up in twin braids that aren’t _quite_ the iconic Princess Leia buns, but…

“Did you do your hair like that on purpose?” asks Peter. “I mean...because the shirt?”

She shrugs nonchalantly, but her smile says she did. “It felt like time to try something new.”

“Well, I love it,” he says, leaning over to kiss her temple. In addition to being the greatest, most gorgeous woman in the galaxy, she’s also the most adorable, and she somehow gets even _more_ adorable when Knight Rider announces that they’ve arrived in Elmore City.

“Oh, look!” she says, pointing at a mural on the side of a building that reads: _Welcome to Elmore City, Home of Footloose_. Neither the building nor the mural is very large, but it’s well-done and it amps up Peter’s excitement, and apparently Gamora’s as well. 

“Is there any place in particular you would like me to stop?” Knight Rider asks, driving slowly as the speed limit lowers drastically. “Perhaps this gas station. Or this empty field. Or that empty field.” 

Peter rolls his eyes. “Yeah, we get it, it’s a small town. Anyone ever tell you you’re kind of a snob, bud?” 

“You, several times, and Ms. Potts once.”

“You gotta learn to appreciate the charms of places that are less than five stars,” he says, though now that they’re here, he realizes he actually doesn’t know what there is to do. “Just take us to the main area. Like a downtown or something.”

“Downtown?” Gamora asks, suddenly concerned. 

“Not like New York,” he says hastily. “Remember, the population of this place is like, a dozen.” 

“707, according to the latest available data.”

“Exactly.” 

Gamora definitely has no reason to fear, which he already knew, but that becomes even more apparent when they turn onto “Main Street” and see nothing but tiny houses, tractors, and abandoned buildings for several blocks. He’s beginning to wonder if they’re in the right place when they finally get to an area that at least has a couple commercial buildings. There’s no more than a few cars parked along the streets, though, and they don’t see anyone walking along. It’s even more deserted than America Village. 

“Oh no,” Knight Rider deadpans. “Wherever shall I park? It will be an absolute battle.”

“Yeah,” says Peter. “No horrible human drivers here to steal your spot.” Which, now that he thinks about it, is a bit eerie. 

They pass something that looks like a tiny, deserted grocery store, a tractor supply store, and two places that look like they sell things for farms and farm animals.

“Wow,” he breathes, trying to approximate humor in his tone, though in reality he’s having a hard time masking the tension that’s gathering in his chest. “More places here to buy groceries for animals than groceries for people.” 

He’s going to feel like an absolute idiot if there isn’t _anything_ to do here, if they’ve somehow traveled all the way across the country just to find a tiny little ghost town. It feels oddly like visiting an old friend only to find a fresh grave in their place. 

Shaking himself, he realizes Knight Rider’s finally pulled into a spot and climbs out immediately, hoping movement will keep his doubts at bay. He stretches grandly in the sun, then walks around the car to meet Gamora--only to find a look of equal apprehension on her face.

“What is it?” he asks, reaching for her hand.

She leans in, speaking quietly. “Where is everyone? Did something happen here? Did Thanos--” She breaks off, unable to finish that thought.

“No, no,” he says quickly, shoving down his own wave of anxiety at the question. “That’s impossible, the snap was reversed. And Thanos is gone.” 

She nods, but her eyes are still darting around wildly, as if expecting to see piles of ash or that monster himself appear out of nowhere. 

He rests his hand on her shoulder, squeezes her hand to ground her. “Hey, I promise, it’s fine. Not a lot of people live here, remember? I bet most of ‘em are just doing something else. Let’s walk around, see what we can find, huh?”

“All right,” she agrees, allowing him to guide her along the sidewalk. The few cars that there are on the street seem to be parked farther down, so he takes them in that direction. 

“Was it really like this in the movie?” she asks, sounding doubtful. 

“Yeah, totally,” he says breezily, though he doesn’t actually remember. “It’s a small, rural town, it’s supposed to be like this.” 

“I thought it became more lively?” she presses. “After Kevin Bacon -- how did you say it? -- removed the sticks from their butts.” 

He snorts, but she has a point. “I bet that’s where everyone is! Probably dancing or something.” 

The first storefront they come to that shows any signs of being an actual, functional business is a place called _Blue Daisy Flowers and Gifts_. There’s a car parked on the street right in front of it, which seems promising. 

“Hey, I got an idea,” Peter says, steering Gamora towards it. “Why don’t we check this place out? We can ask the owner what there is to do around here.”

“All right,” she agrees, after only a moment’s hesitation.

From the outside, the place looks small and more than a little rundown, the awning faded and the dusty windows plastered with flyers, all of them out of date. It’s only when he tries and fails to open the front door that he realizes there’s a very good reason for that.

“Oh,” he says, feeling stupid as he reads the sign on the front door that says: _We’ve moved! Find us a few buildings over_ and then an arrow pointing to the right. “This one’s not open anymore.” 

“Did something happen?” Gamora asks anxiously.

“They just got a new location!” he says cheerily, hoping that’s all it was. “C’mon, it says it’s just down here.” 

True to the sign’s word, they only have to walk past a couple more run-down buildings before they reach the real Blue Daisy. The outside looks much nicer than the other location, but the fact that it’s located right next to a funeral home makes him distrust it even more than the old place. He sees Gamora’s eyes linger on it as they pass it. 

“This looks a lot more promising, right?” he says as they walk up the front porch steps, trying to keep both their minds off the place next door. 

“Very nice,” she says without much feeling.

He steels himself as he opens the door for Gamora, telling himself that even if this place is a total dump, they can at least get advice about where to go next. 

Thankfully, there’s nothing to worry about inside. The place is surprisingly modern--for Earth, anyway--and warm, the air scented vaguely like roses, reminding him of the way Gamora’s skin smells after a bath. 

There aren’t any people visible right away, but Peter finds that he doesn’t mind. The front table is arranged with a variety of flowers and tiny souvenirs, many of them floral-themed too. In the middle of the display is a sign painted on what appears to be a chalkboard, proclaiming _plant smiles, grow laughter, harvest love_ in fancy, curly letters. It’s a bit cheesy and he’s about to say so, but then he catches sight of what’s on the table in front of it: a selection of tiny fake flowers attached to beads, clearly intended for hair.

“Hey,” he says excitedly, turning toward Gamora. “You want some of these for your braid?”

Her eyes widen when she sees what he’s talking about, and she comes up to examine them. She picks one up, holding it so delicately in her palm that it might as well be a tiny bird she’s afraid of injuring. 

“I don’t know,” she says despite her clear interest. “It’s Stark’s money.”

“Which we’ve been using the whole time,” he points out. He’s not about to let her tendency to deny herself things she wants get in the way of -- well, of her getting something she wants. “He told us not to worry about money, remember? Besides, these are two bucks each. That probably doesn’t even register as money to him.”

“They _are_ beautiful,” she says softly. 

“So they’ll match you!” He picks one up and holds it next to her braid, delighting in the fondly exasperated look she gives him. 

“That is incredibly gaudy,” says Gamora. 

Peter shrugs. She’s not wrong--the one he’s selected is a giant pink rose on a clip, the whole thing half the size of her head. He has to admit that it probably would look ridiculous attached to her mini braid, but he just can’t help the fact that it makes him think of her. 

“You make an impression,” he insists. “So this is perfect.”

She arches an eyebrow. “Are you calling _me_ gaudy, Star-Lord?”

He practically glows at that name on her lips, just like he does every time she says it.

“How about this one?” he suggests, showing her a flower that’s similar in size, but purple.

“Peter…” She shakes her head affectionately, then reaches for the one she’s been eyeing wistfully the whole time. It’s a delicate wire vine covered in tiny pearls and pink silk buds. He can immediately picture it woven into her hair, the sort of undeniably soft thing she treasures for the contrast it makes with her usual style.

“That one,” he says immediately. “Absolutely that one.”

“You think?” she asks shyly. 

“Yes,” he insists, closing his hand over hers where she’s holding it. “Definitely.”

A small smile plays across her face. “All right. Then--then I suppose I should get it.”

“Awesome!” says Peter, doing another fist pump. Then he nods toward another sign on the table, which reads _plant dreams and grow a happy life._ “Think we should get that for Drax?”

“Oh, definitely,” she says, smirking before deepening her voice and transforming her face into something approximating a serious expression. “Quill, how can you plant a dream? Are dreams physical objects on Terra?”

“‘Mora, oh my god,” he cackles, which only eggs her on; he’ll never be over how adorable she is when she does impressions. 

“Are they able to grow humans from the ground? Like Groot?” She runs her fingers through his hair as if searching for roots. His smile turns loopy. “Is that how you were raised?”

“Yeah, we’re totally getting this for him,” Peter says, pouting when she takes her hand away. 

“We are already running out of room in the car.”

“There’s still the whole trunk left!” he points out. “Room for a ton of other presents.”

“I’m not sure the others would like anything from here,” she says, moving away from the hair section, probably before she’s tempted to buy all of it. “Well, Mantis would like anything we got her.”

He picks up a flowery hat from a rack as they pass. “What about this for Nebula?” 

“She would set it aflame,” Gamora says dryly, barely sparing it a glance. She’s already focused on her next destination, a rack of jewelry, more pretty things she rarely allows herself to indulge in. 

“You should get a flower ring to match your new hair ornament!” he suggests, showing her one. 

“That’s beautiful,” she agrees immediately, but doesn’t take it from him.

Her attention is still on another part of the rack, and he realizes immediately why--She’s looking at a selection of earrings, all made to resemble flowers. Watching her, he has a sudden memory of looking at a field of wildflowers with his mother, how she’d had a book that identified all the flowers and was trying to memorize the names. He hardly recalls any now, but he tries anyway. Violet, he thinks, looking at a purple one. And something about lips, he thinks about another. Two lips? Maybe. Roses he knows for sure, and--

Peter catches his breath as he looks at a set that’s got two pinkish flowers, each sitting on top of a round green lilypad. _My river lily,_ says Ego’s voice in his memory, and he suppresses a shudder.

“Peter!” says Gamora, and her hand on his shoulder makes him realize she’s been trying to get his attention for at least the last few moments. 

He shakes himself. “I’m fine, I’m fine, sorry--what?”

“What do you think of these?” she asks, holding up a pair of earrings. They’re pink rosebuds, with leaves that hang down loose.

“I love them!” he says, perhaps with more enthusiasm than the situation really warrants, but he _does_ , and he’s definitely not overcompensating for zoning out at all. “They’re gorgeous, you should get them.”

She raises an eyebrow. “Are you sure you’re okay?”

“Yeah, totally.” He waves his hand dismissively. “I’m good, just got a little distracted by... these!” He latches onto the first viable thing he sees: yet another sign, this one on what seems to be the counter where an employee would normally be. This one reads _Cut flowers: $1 each_. Next to it, there’s a vase of pink, red, and white flowers with really long stems that he knows aren’t roses, but they look pretty similar. 

“How ‘bout a real flower to match?” he suggests. 

“I do like them,” she says, looking between the earrings in her hand and the flowers. 

He’s about to offer to buy the entire vase when her eyes suddenly dart behind him. 

“I thought I heard voices,” says the woman who’s just emerged from a door on the other side of the counter. She’s wearing an apron and holding a bouquet, so Peter’s like 99% sure she works here. “I’m so sorry, I must’ve missed the door opening. I wasn’t expecting any customers at this time.” 

“That’s all right!” Peter says brightly, immediately turning the charm back on. He liked it better when they were free to browse unattended, actually, though he supposes they’ll have to pay at some point. 

This woman is neatly dressed in jeans and an embroidered shirt that looks like it probably came from the line he can see displayed in the back of the shop. And she’s decked out in about as many pieces of the flowered jewelry that she possibly could be while still managing to do her job. She doesn’t have a nametag, which he figures probably means that everyone around town already knows her. He doesn’t bother to ask why she didn’t expect any customers to be around in the middle of the afternoon; that much is evident from the empty streets.

“Did y’all find what you were looking for?” asks the woman, still peering at them somewhat curiously. She hasn’t said anything about Gamora’s appearance yet, but he doesn’t really trust that that particular consideration will continue.

He glances at Gamora, is about to tell the woman that they need more time, want to finish browsing in private, not to be a bother.

“Yes,” Gamora says before he can. “We were just getting ready to pay. Maybe you could help us with that?”

“Certainly, certainly,” she says, setting her bouquet down and sidling up to the cash register. “Set your stuff down, I’ll get you taken care of.”

Peter dashes around the display behind them to grab the sign for Drax while Gamora puts her purchases down on the counter. When he comes back to set it next to hers, the lady says, “My name’s Deb, by the way. You two are obviously from out of town, if you don’t mind me saying.”

Gamora tenses next to him, and Peter pastes his charming smile on even more, hoping to get through this quickly. He’s not super comfortable with the way Deb is looking at Gamora, like she’s a slightly scary curiosity, rather than a goddamn hero. 

“You could say that, ma’am,” he says politely, then decides to just dive right into it. “We were actually wondering if you could point us towards the _Footloose_ stuff.”

Deb’s eyebrows go up just a smidge. “I beg your pardon, dear?”

“The _Footloose_ stuff,” he repeats more slowly, thinking maybe she just didn’t hear. “You know, like the movie.”

She gives him a tight smile, probably holding in a sigh. Her tone isn’t unkind, but it’s not exactly kind, either. “You two aren’t the first to come through town lookin’ for it to be a movie set. I’m sorry, but it’s really just a town that a movie happened to be loosely based on.”

“I don’t expect it to be a movie set,” says Peter, realizing too late that defensiveness is breaking through his facade of charisma. It’s mostly because he’s feeling protective of Gamora, he tells himself, but in reality it’s a completely irrational protectiveness of his mother, too. Her movies, her stories, her memories that he’s been carrying like a treasure trove for thirty years. Still, it won’t do either of them any good if he starts a fight now. “I just thought, you know, I’d like to meet the real people it’s about.”

Deb just shakes her head, slowly, like she’s feeling sorry for what an absolute idiot he must be. “Real people?”

“Like Kevin Bacon,” says Gamora, stepping in to lay a hand on Peter’s shoulder, clearly feeling her own sense of protectiveness.

“Well bless your heart, honey,” says Deb, shaking her head in a way that implies she feels Gamora is truly anything but blessed. “You really _are_ from out of town. _Way_ out.”

“Not that far,” he mutters petulantly, thinking Missouri is just one state over. Deb’s eyebrows shoot up and she looks pointedly at Gamora, but she doesn’t comment on that. He’s glad; he’s already gripping the counter tightly to keep his well-practiced smile in place. 

“Kevin Bacon is an actor,” Deb says slowly, as if they’d never heard of such a thing before. “He was just playing a part. And the real kids who went to that first prom are older than me now. Some of ‘em are still around, but they’re just regular folks. If you’re looking to meet some kind of celebrity, you’ve come to the wrong place.”

He flinches hard; Gamora’s grip on his shoulder tightens, either out of her own distress at that statement or to comfort his, he’s not sure. 

_Ignore her_ , he tells himself. She obviously doesn’t know what she’s talking about. It’s not like he doesn’t know Kevin Bacon is an actor, but Deb clearly doesn’t understand how significant this story is. 

“There must be _something_ ,” he presses, trying to keep his voice casual. 

“Well, there was the festival a couple’a weeks ago,” says Deb, digging around behind the counter for a moment before presenting them with a flyer, all but shoving it in their face. “But that’s done now, and we’re all real happy about it. Only have it ‘cause we need some smidge of tourist revenue. You wanna see the _real_ town? Ain’t got nothing to do with Footloose. That’s just a movie and not a very good one at that.”

Peter stiffens, feeling practically like he’s been hit, though he simultaneously realizes how ridiculously out of proportion his reaction is. Still, he’s never, ever done well with people insulting the people and things he loves and this is no exception. “Hey. You have no idea! Not only is _Footloose_ the greatest movie of all time, it pretty much saved the whole damn galaxy!”

“Peter,” Gamora says, quietly but warningly, her hand tightening even further, until her fingers are practically digging into his flesh. It’s a red flag, he knows, a sign that he’s losing control in a bad way and yet...and _yet_...well, if he was _in_ control, it wouldn’t be a loss, would it?

“Come again?” says Deb, raising an eyebrow in a way that’s most definitely judgmental.

“ _I_ saved the galaxy with a dance-off,” says Peter, though he’s fully aware he’d protest the very same statement coming from anyone else. “Inspired by _Footloose_. Therefore _Footloose_ saved the galaxy.”

Deb looks between the two of them, lingering on Gamora’s skin and distinctly non-Terran appearance, but she doesn’t seem to believe him. She pastes on a tight, polite smile and just says, “Whatever you say, darlin’.”

“Let’s just go, Peter,” Gamora whispers, rubbing his back in a calming motion. 

For her sake, he presses his lips together in an imitation of Deb’s forced smile and hands over Stark’s credit card, because this lady may be the worst but Gamora is the best and she’s getting that damn jewelry. 

“Y’all come back and see us again,” Deb says when she hands over the bag, all false friendliness. 

He makes a noncommittal noise and walks away, just wanting to get out of there as soon as possible, the air of this place suddenly suffocating. Gamora stops when they’re almost out, though, turning around to throw over her shoulder, “He _did_ save the galaxy, by the way. Several times. You’re welcome.” Then she pulls him the rest of the way and lets the door close quickly behind them. 

“She doesn’t know what she’s talking about,” he says stiffly. He wants to be able to grin proudly at her praise, or laugh adoringly at her protectiveness of him, but right now it’s all he can do to keep from pulling the sign they’d purchased out of the bag and snapping it in half out of frustration. 

“Clearly not,” says Gamora, steering him away from the shop at a brisk pace, though they don’t have any particular direction to travel. Still, moving is helping a bit, burning off some of the rage. Not that he’s anywhere near calm. “She clearly didn’t believe you’d saved the galaxy.”

“Not that,” says Peter, waving her off. Partly because he’s not feeling particularly great about any of his accomplishments at the moment, but also because he’s pretty sure 99% of Terrans have no idea that they owe him, in some small part, their lives. “The movie! I mean, I _know_ Footloose is a movie, I’m not an idiot! I’m _not_ \--”

“I know you aren’t stupid, Peter,” she interrupts, her tone quiet but intense, certain. “You don’t have to convince me.”

“Okay,” he continues, too worked up to stop, though he does hear what she’s saying. Not that he’s able to believe it, entirely. “But the point is, Footloose _is_ the greatest movie of all time and it _did_ happen, right here in this town!”

“I know,” she repeats. “Don’t let her get to you. Why don’t we explore some more? I’m sure we will find something, without her help.”

He nods, allowing her to lead him down a different street. Putting physical distance between himself and whatever has upset him usually helps, something that Gamora knows. 

“You believe me, right?” he asks, still unable to let it go. “I mean--look, they have a freaking festival!” He flattens out the flyer he’d been holding crumpled in his hand without realizing and shows it to her. “Games, an art show, a street dance! And we saw that painting on the building, _Home of Footloose_! That lady is just bitter, or a liar, or--”

“Peter,” Gamora says, cutting him off again in that calm but firm tone. “You’re getting yourself worked up. Breathe.” 

“I’m breathing,” he mutters, but obligingly takes a couple deep breaths, finding that it helps a little. He looks again at the flyer, which has a picture from the movie, and invites people from everywhere to celebrate the anniversary of that first prom. _Only have it ‘cause we need some smidge of tourist revenue_ , Deb had said. 

He crumples the flyer again. There’s a trash can a few steps away and he hurls the ball of paper violently toward it. The flyer, of course, misses the hole and bounces back at him defiantly, like a pretty little fuck you from the universe. Peter makes a noise resembling a growl before scooping it up and throwing it again, only to have it bounce back a second time because he’s used too much force.

“Damn it,” he mutters, throwing it in on the third try. It isn’t satisfying, though, his anger threatening to explode now that he’s let it vent even a tiny bit. He kicks the trash can for good measure, which sends pain blooming through his foot and of course does absolutely nothing to make the can feel sorry about what it’s done.

“Peter!” Gamora snaps, her voice a mix of shock, concern, and irritation. “Come on, let’s not make a scene.”

“Too late,” he says bitterly, kicking the thing again. “Apparently that’s what I do.”

“Hey, no it’s not,” she says firmly. She grasps his arm in both her hands but doesn’t try to pull him away. “Come on, Peter. You are injured enough as it is, you don’t need to add a broken foot to that.”

He glances down at the arm she’s holding, then farther down to his bandaged palm, which he’s curled into a fist without thinking. It hurts a lot less than it had before. As fucked up as he knows this is, he almost wishes for the pain back so he he could press into it, use it to ground himself. 

It kind of works anyway, though, when Gamora rests her hand over it and he finally meets her gaze again. She’s worried, even anxious, and that’s the exact opposite of what he wants. This is supposed to be about _her_ because she needs to heal, because she wanted to see the town Kevin Bacon saved, and now they’re here and he’s ruining it for her. 

“You’re right,” he says, unclenching his fist and putting on a smile. “Sorry. I’m okay. Let’s keep exploring, find some Footloose stuff.” 

She blinks, apparently surprised by his sudden change in demeanor, but follows when he begins walking again. 

“Okay,” she says slowly. “Good. But you don’t have to fake being all right. Just talk to me instead of taking it out on inanimate objects.”

“I'm not faking it!” he says too brightly, pausing to curl his arm at the elbow and offer it to her gallantly. “Shall we?”

“We already were,” she points out, but takes his arm indulgently, allowing him to guide her.

They've apparently exhausted the very small area of shops that might be considered vaguely passable tourist attractions, and are back to a more industrial-looking area, surrounded by buildings that might be abandoned or might just be so well known to locals that they don't require any outward identification. Though he's starting to wonder whether there really _are_ any locals, the deserted streets making the whole thing feel surreal and vaguely creepy, like he's back in one of his nightmares. 

“Wait!” says Gamora, stopping abruptly and pointing at a street sign. “That says Missouri! Is that where you grew up?”

“What?” The question startles him slightly out of his bad mood, enough to manage a small chuckle. “No, it’s just a street name. Named after the state, I guess.” 

“Your state must be held in high esteem, then,” she says. “To be the namesake for something else.” 

“Yeah, I guess,” he says, straightening up with pride. “Not like this street is that impressive, but I guess it’s something.” 

“It has...charm,” Gamora says with such forced enthusiasm that he laughs again. 

“It has nothing. Literally nothing.” Unless some trees and houses count. There aren’t even sidewalks. “C’mon, let’s keep going.”

“Are you sure you don’t want to see what’s on this one?” she asks, peering down it again as if suddenly something interesting is going to appear.

“Yeah, let’s stick with this one. This one at least has some stuff on it.” Plus, the reminder of how close they are to his home state isn’t helping his nerves. 

“True!” Gamora says brightly, clearly trying to cheer him up. “For example, there’s a fueling station! It’s somewhat impressive that this town needs more than one of those, judging by the number of cars we haven’t seen on the road.”

He loves her for it, undeniably, but it’s really only making him feel worse. He’s supposed to be taking care of her, he thinks again, which is the whole problem -- he’s utterly failed at that in bringing her here, and being upset about that is making him even _less_ able.

“Yeah,” says Peter, deciding to go with her on the false enthusiasm. He glances around, trying to find other things worthy of pointing out to her. A hardware store, a restaurant, another grocery store. He has a momentary, bitter thought about how much of Stark’s money he might have been willing to spend here if they’d had a souvenir shop based on Footloose. But they don’t, of course. Good thing Mantis isn’t with them, after all. 

“Hey!” he says in a saccharine tone as his gaze comes to rest on a building that looks like a converted house, the sign on the front identifying it as _septic services_. “Some literal shit!”

Gamora wrinkles her nose, unable to contain her distaste, though she’s clearly trying. “I suppose they’ve got to have that somewhere.”

“Maybe we should’ve gone down that other street after all,” he mutters, moving quickly down the street. He doesn’t remember -- or more likely never learned -- how that type of thing works on Earth, but he wants to get Gamora away from it in case there are any...smells. Her sense of smell is overactive because of her enhancements; sometimes there have been smells that don’t seem that strong to him but make her nearly become physically ill. 

“Peter?” she questions. “What is a badger?”

He follows her line of sight to a sign on the other side of the street, advertising something called _Badger Den_. 

“It’s an animal,” he says, because that much he remembers. The rest of it is kind of fuzzy, though, vague images popping into his head. “Like a raccoon, but smaller. And less of a smartass.” 

She nods, accepting this. “Do they keep them in there? Is it a home for them?”

“No, I think it’s a restaurant,” he says, squinting at the board beneath the sign that has specials written on it. “Right across from the poop station, that’s nice.”

“Well,” says Gamora, “I suppose something has to be.”

“Sure,” Peter scoffs. “You wanna go eat lunch there?” 

She's trying so hard to make him feel better, but it's getting to the point where he really wishes she would stop. It would feel better if she'd commiserate with him instead, though then she'd be miserable too, and he doesn't want that either. This town is stupid and confusing, basically. He's pretty much decided that he hates it. 

“No thank you,” Gamora says politely, but then her expression brightens in a different way, the forced tension dissipating as genuine excitement takes over. She points to another group of buildings, just past the restaurant. “Look! That is a school, is it not? Is that where Kevin Bacon saved the town?”

He stares in shock for a second, because he’d just resolved to hate this town and everything and everyone in it, to denounce it as stupid and unworthy of the movie it inspired, but here, at last, is _something_ to see. 

“Yes!” he practically shouts. “Mora, that’s it! That’s where history happened!”

He pulls her along, jogging the rest of the short way, hearing her laugh behind him. The sound is full of joy and he thinks maybe this is going to be salvageable after all. 

There’s a fair amount of cars parked alongside the front of the school, and he thinks maybe this is where everyone in town is now. The small building on their left is apparently the middle school, and the larger one on their right is the high school, the place where it all happened. 

Except, it doesn’t really look like anything really happened here. Ever. The whole thing could probably fit in one room of Stark’s compound, and there’s nothing he can see that would indicate anyone cares the slightest bit about Footloose. It’s all unassuming, plain, normal. 

Peter stops short a few steps from the entrance, realizing abruptly that he's not really sure what he's intended to do. Growing up, he'd thought of this as some kind of magical place where maybe they taught only dancing, or maybe it was prom every day or...something. Something more exciting and less full of bullies than the goings-on at _his_ school, for sure. 

Something that didn't include other kids who were mean to the world and each other just for the hell of it. Something that _definitely_ didn't include making fun of him for the fact that he wrote his letters backward a lot of the time and had a mom who was bald. 

_A movie set,_ he hears in Deb’s judgmental voice, and tries to shove it down. 

“Hey!” comes another voice, shattering his thoughts. 

Peter jumps, turning to see a man coming out of the school at a brisk pace. He opens his mouth, prepares to turn on the charm, but--

“Hey, what’re you doing here?” the man repeats. He glances at Gamora. “We don't want your kind!”

Gamora tenses next to him and he instantly sees red. His ability to keep cool and talk himself out of unpleasant situation is one he’s counted on a lot over the years, but it frequently flies out the window when Gamora is involved. 

And now? After everything she’s been through, after he’s just fucking _lost_ her? The window is absolutely shattered. 

“What the hell do you mean, _your kind_?” Peter snaps, taking a step closer to the guy. 

“Peter, it’s okay,” Gamora says softly, grabbing onto his arm again. “Let’s just go.”

“You know what I mean!” the guy yells. “Aliens! Always comin’ here and causing trouble! Go back to your own damn planet!”

“She just saved the entire universe! Including _this_ damn planet!”

“Peter, seriously,” Gamora says insistently. “I don’t want a scene.”

“C’mon, I can take him,” he hisses through a clenched jaw. And he can, he knows; Peter may be weak compared to a lot of species in the galaxy, but he’s strong compared to most Terrans, and this guy doesn’t have a visible muscle on him. 

“I don’t give a rat’s ass what she’s done,” the man says, face contorted with hatred and anger. “Rotten, all of ‘em!” 

Then he spits in her direction, and without conscious thought, Peter rips his arm out of Gamora’s grip and punches the man square in the jaw, sending him sprawling to the ground. 

“ _Peter_!” she shouts, grabbing his arm again and wrenching him away from the man almost violently. 

She takes off at a run, her hand like a vice grip on him, actually somewhat painful. It’s all he can do to stumble along after her, practically falling, though the momentum and her sheer brute force keep him from going down entirely. His knees are screaming again, though, as is his injured palm, where he’s subconsciously curled it into a fist again, digging viciously at it with his nails.

The world is half-dissolved around him, like he’s not really here -- instead he’s a boy again, his mother’s voice disappointed in his ears. _Why’ve you been fighting, Peter?_ He’s floating in space, trapped inside a suit that won’t transfer, that takes away his choice to give his life for Yondu’s. He’s inside of the Stone, watching Gamora fall, over and over again for eternity.

And then reality comes slamming back as they turn a corner and Gamora jumps into his path, catching him by both shoulders to stop him from getting run over by Knight Rider, who’s somehow suddenly here, in the middle of the road, doors open and ready. 

“Get in,” Gamora orders, and then shoves him toward the passenger side.

Peter gets in clumsily, his heart still pounding, though it’s a relief to be off his feet.

“Drive,” Gamora orders, as she climbs in on the other side, in Peter’s usual seat.

“Absolutely, Ms. Gamora,” says Knight Rider. “Where to?”

“I don’t care,” she says brusquely. “Away from here.”

For once Knight Rider has no sassy comebacks, just slides his doors closed and does as ordered.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, uh, we would like to take this time to formally apologize to Elmore City. Neither of us have ever been there, and while we used pictures and google maps to get the streets and stuff as accurate as possible, and Blue Daisy's is a real store, Peter is viewing it all through a negative lens. Also, the people they meet are both made up!
> 
> Sorry Elmore City!


	18. Chapter 18

There’s about as much to see on their way out of Elmore City as there was walking through it, Peter thinks bitterly; nothing but farmland, trees, and the occasional herd of cows. Not that it takes them long to get out of that shithole. He kind of wishes he was back in it, though, so he could really wail on that guy, see if he can insult Gamora with a split lip and two black eyes and --

He stops that train of thought because he’s worked up enough as it is, and thinking about that asshole only makes his heart pound harder. His hand is throbbing too, so are his knees, and he’s grateful for the pain because it’s the only thing somewhat distracting him from how badly he fucked up.

Gamora is pissed. That much is obvious. She’s staring determinedly at the road in front of them, avoiding his gaze, every muscle in her body held taut. Her lips are pressed together in a thin line, her breathing heavier than usual. 

He looks down at his lap to avoid looking at her, at the evidence of how much he’s failed. This trip is supposed to be fun and healing for her. First he ruined it by taking her to a craphole place, then he ruined it by pouting the whole time and making her try to cheer him up, then he ruined it by punching someone who _completely deserved it_ , but that’s obviously not what she wanted him to do, only made the whole thing worse. 

He’s trying to come up with some way to adequately apologize when Gamora finally turns to him and says, “Let me see your arm.”

Peter blinks, the request equal parts jarring and bewildering. For a moment he wonders if he’s misheard her, mixed up her words with his thoughts, or if something’s somehow happened to his arm without his noticing.

“Huh?” he manages finally, because Gamora’s still looking at him, waiting for him to respond.

“Your arm,” Gamora repeats. “Let me see it.”

“Why?” he asks, though he holds out the one next to her.

She shakes her head, somewhere between concerned and exasperated. “The other one.”

“Oh.” He has to twist around in his seat to do that, and it strikes him again that it’s a good thing neither one of them is driving. “Why?”

“Does it hurt?” she asks, running her hand over it before carefully bending his joints, like she’s checking for breaks or sprains.

“No,” he says firmly, confusion turning into irritation because he still hasn’t figured out what the hell she’s getting at. “Why would it?”

She swallows, avoiding his eyes. “I was--rough.”

“Oh,” he says, softening. Maybe anger isn’t the only reason for her tension. “Really, it’s fine.” Her grip had been hard at the time, but not enough to have any lasting effects. 

Still, she examines his arm a while longer before she’s satisfied, guiding it gently back to his side as though putting a baby down in its crib, or something equally fragile. He’d be miffed by her treating him like he’s weak if he didn’t know it came from her own guilt. 

“Now the other,” she instructs, not waiting for him to move before she picks up his other arm, the one he’d used to punch that guy, cradling his wrist as she runs her fingers over the backs of his. He can’t help hissing, fingers jumping slightly at the touch, however delicate. The punch had been anything but artful; he’d hit the man’s jaw with the flats of his fingers rather than the knuckles. 

“I’m okay,” he repeats. His knees honestly hurt worse, the impact from running so quickly and clumsily making them throb anew. 

“They don’t feel broken,” she acknowledges. “Do they hurt?”

She finally meets his eyes and he can’t lie to her. “They’re a little sore.”

“And your palm?” she asks, running her fingers over the smooth surface of the bandage.

Peter hisses as the nerves there light up with little prickles of pain, though he has a feeling that has more to do with the way he’s been digging at it than the injury itself.

“Still?” asks Gamora, her tone incredulous, almost judgmental.

“It’s fine!” he says quickly, snatching his hand away. “It’s only been, like, a week. Not even. Sorry we can’t all heal in five minutes like you do.”

“ _You_ typically heal more quickly than this,” she says firmly. “Particularly when your injuries are bandaged like that.”

He swallows, refusing to consider the possibility that she might be right. “It was--” He cuts himself off. He was about to say _a bad injury_ but that’s a trap, also not what she wants to hear. Also something that will probably remind her that she has lots of reasons to be angry with him. “It’s fine.”

“Perhaps we should find a doctor for you,” she says doubtfully.

“ _No!_ ” Peter snaps. 

She recoils in surprise before her eyes narrow and her voice hardens. “It was only a suggestion. You don’t need to chew my head off.”

He snorts, regretting that she’s in much too bad a mood to be teased about her mistake right now. Not that he’s in much of a teasing mood either. 

“What?” she asks shortly, though her touch on his hand is still paradoxically tender. 

“Nothing. Sorry. But I’m fine and I’m not going to a doctor.”

She continues to glare at him and he can see the debate in her eyes. She knows how much he hates doctor’s offices and hospitals and anything resembling one, and she’s no big fan herself, but she’s obviously concerned about this. 

“Look,” he says, softer. “It just took a while to take care of it properly, so it’s probably gonna heal slower than usual, that’s all.”

“Or perhaps it is because you keep pressing on it and punching people with it,” she says pointedly. 

He purses his lips and says nothing, aware that he’s basically pouting but unsure what he could possibly say that wouldn’t make this worse for himself. 

After a beat, she sighs. “What were you _thinking_ , Peter?”

“He insulted you!” says Peter, the anger he’s been trying to tamp down flaring up again immediately now that it’s got an excuse to come to the forefront. “He _spit_ at you! Like you were--were--” There are no words for it that he can bring himself to say. 

“So what?” Gamora interrupts, shifting into a posture that’s clearly accusatory, hand rested on her hip, though she’s still constrained by Knight Rider’s seat. Which is probably a good thing for him. 

“So-- _what_?” Peter sputters, shocked by her response, though perhaps he shouldn’t be. Gamora is terribly accustomed to incidents like this one, to being insulted and ridiculed and worse. And every time, _every time_ it’s ever happened, she’s had the same response, which is that she probably deserves it, at least from the attacker’s perspective. It makes him absolutely sick, though he thinks he understands it now better than ever, having actually experienced the horror of Thanos firsthand.

“Yes,” she insists. “So what? He’s not the first person to insult me and he won’t be the last. How exactly was you punching him supposed to make anything better?”

“It shut him the hell up,” he says, remembering with satisfaction the way he’d fallen to the ground. “Maybe his jaw will hurt bad enough that he can’t spit at anyone for a while.”

She rolls her eyes. “We could have shut him up by walking away.”

“Who the hell was he to tell us we couldn’t be there, anyway?” he says, way too worked up to admit she has a point. “Last I checked, you’re allowed to stand on a damn sidewalk.”

“Perhaps he owns the school,” Gamora says, shrugging. 

“Piece of crap school,” Peter mutters bitterly. “But we should’ve been allowed to freaking stand there. We saved the entire damn universe! That asshole owes you his life probably, and he went ballistic on you just for existing!”

She makes a frustrated noise, throwing her hands up. “I’m not arguing that he’s an asshole, Peter. I am saying that if you punch everyone who insults me, you’re going to end up with broken hands!”

“Well, it’ll be worth it,” he says firmly. And when he breaks his hands, he’ll switch to kicking. 

“No, it will not!” Her voice cracks slightly, desperate and almost scared. “I don’t want you to be endangered because of me! You already--” She cuts herself off with a sharp inhale, biting her lower lip, which has suddenly started trembling. 

“And you _died_!” says Peter, completely unable to stop the words from tumbling out. He regrets it immediately, flinches at hearing it aloud himself, much less the reminder it must be for her. Yet the sentiment remains. She has already sacrificed absolutely everything for her sister, for the universe, for _him._ He is not going to stand by and watch some ungrateful asshole insult her, or worse. He already failed to protect her in New York. It is _not_ going to happen again.

“So did you!” she shoots back, her voice unmistakably ragged. “Or--ceased to exist, or--whatever! You gave your life, Peter. And then you almost gave your soul! I will not allow you to risk further harm to yourself on my behalf!”

“Well tough shit!” Peter retorts. This time he lets himself be grounded in the anger, lets it fuel him. It’s safer that way, because if he thinks about the words they’re saying, he’s going to start crying again, and that will completely undermine his point. “I’m gonna risk it! I’m gonna take it, if that’s what shuts the assholes up!”  
“Don’t you get it?” Gamora snaps, her tone absolute acid now. “I am _not worth it._ ”

“ _What?_ ” He looks at her like she’s suggested they hop back into the Soul Stone. “What the hell are you talking about? You are worth everything, every goddamn thing in the universe. I will break my hands over and over and consider myself lucky to get to do that for you!”

She practically growls, hands balled into fists by her temples as if she wants to tear her brain out. “Well I _don’t want you to!_ ” 

“And I don’t want you to just stand there and take abuse from every passing asshole in the galaxy!” He shrugs, mock-casual. “I guess we’ll have to agree to disagree.”

“No!” she shouts. “Nothing is worth you getting hurt over!” 

He’s about to reiterate, _again_ , that yes, she very well is worth that, but then she cups his face in both hands. She seems to be trying to hold onto her emotions but she’s not doing a very good job, her face and her voice so full of desperation when she says, “I can’t let you get hurt because of me, or sacrifice yourself, _please_.” 

“You tried to do it for me!” he insists, though his own grasp on his anger is slipping. “When you tried to stay in the Stone!”

“That is different,” she says fiercely. “You are worth it.”

“Oh,” says Peter, bitterly. “So I’m better than you are now? I’m--what, more worthy of not being in _literal hell_?”

“Yes,” Gamora says firmly, apparently refusing to take that bait, at least in the way he’s intended.

It’s absurd, and he knows it--He’s having an actual argument against his own self-worth here, and yet he’s determined to win it. God knows, he’s had plenty of practice beating up on himself. It’s easy enough to voice the insecurities that play beneath the surface every goddamned day. 

“Why?” he challenges.

She blinks, apparently thrown by that response. “What? Why do you deserve to not be in hell? I am not going to-- _nobody_ deserves that!”

“Except you, apparently,” says Peter, meeting her gaze with a challenge in his own eyes. “Because that’s what you just said, isn’t it?”

“ _No,_ ” says Gamora. Which, to be fair, is something of a relief. If she’d agreed, that would have absolutely broken his heart. 

Everything is upside down and backwards right now, like the world’s spun off its axis, like--Like the gravity on Titan. Buoyant in some places, crushing in others. 

Gamora throws up her hands when he doesn’t respond in words. “This is ridiculous, Peter. How did we even get on who belongs in hell? My point was that you shouldn’t be punching random people!”

“He wasn’t random people!” he says, enunciating as if the individual words are what she’s having difficulty understanding. “He was people who harassed you!”

“He didn’t say anything I haven’t heard before,” Gamora says, parroting his tone. “In fact, it was _nicer_ than a lot of things I’ve heard before. You’ve never punched anyone just for insulting me. Why was this time different?” 

“How can you ask that?” he says incredulously. “All of this is different! And I have so! I shot that guy on Krylor.” 

She sighs, exasperated. “I knew you were gonna bring that up. He at least had a weapon, so he was somewhat of a threat. In either case, I could have hit him myself if I had really wanted to.” 

“I could’ve punched that guy who called me an orphan thief on Arcturus,” he points out. “If you hadn’t shoved your sword under his chin first.” 

She flushes ever so slightly and sits up straighter. “That was different.” 

“How?” he asks, arms crossed. “And please don’t say because it was me or some other double standard.” 

“I didn’t actually stab him.” 

“Yeah, and you _barely_ twisted his arm,” he says dryly. 

“It remained in its socket,” she says dismissively. 

“Oh sure,” says Peter. “You didn't _actually_ dislocate it, so that makes everything okay.”

She gives him an aloof shrug he knows is absolute bullshit. “Precisely. No permanent harm was done.”

“Well punching that asshole in the face isn't gonna do any permanent damage either,” he insists. “Unless we’re talking about his ego. Which, really, we did him a favor removing his head from his ass.”

Gamora knows him and his figures of speech well enough by now that she doesn't comment, but she does make a face at the mental image. “It was still foolish, Peter. What if you had been arrested? What if you still are?”

“Gamora, if I got arrested for every asshole I punched--" He breaks off, realizing that probably isn't the best argument to be making right now. “Look, that guy just sucked. Hell, the whole _town_ sucked. Well, except for the flowers, maybe. That stuff you got is really pretty.”

She sighs again but softens a bit, running the pad of her thumb over the back of his hand. “I haven't disagreed with that.”

“With what?” he asks, watching her thumb. “That everything sucked or that the stuff you got is pretty?” 

“Yes,” she say simply and he laughs. He relaxes slightly against the seat and twines their fingers together, letting some of the tension go. Part of him thinks they should continue to talk about her insane willingness to let herself be insulted, but most of him knows that this is an argument they’ve had many times, and in four years he’s made little progress. 

Besides, he is so damn tired of fighting. 

“It did suck,” he says with a heavy sigh. “No one would arrest me for punching someone in that town, I bet everyone knows how much they suck.”

“Peter,” she says, trying to sound stern even though she’s smirking. “We only interacted with two people there. I’m not sure we can judge the entire population.”

He scoffs. “What, all twelve of ‘em? God, no wonder no one wants to live there, if that’s the kinda people there.” 

“I suppose it wasn’t...the friendliest place,” she says mildly, avoiding his eyes. 

A fresh wave of guilt washes over him. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry about the town, and that I dragged you halfway across the country just to see that piece of crap.”

“What?” she asks, shocked into meeting his gaze. “ _You_ are sorry about that? I was going to apologize to you for the same thing.” 

“Wait,” says Peter, wondering again if he’s heard wrong. “How would this possibly be your fault?”

Gamora furrows her brow, giving him a look like she might be either concerned or despairing for his intelligence. Both, probably. “Um, because it was my idea? Have you forgotten that, Peter?”

He had, sort of, the past few days a mind-numbing blur of exhaustion and fear and sadness, interspersed with the too-short moments of awesome. He feels like he’s aged a lifetime, which reminds him that Gamora _has_ , in a way. 

He shakes himself. “No, ‘course not.”

“Then how would it _not_ be my fault?” she insists, giving him a look that says she knows he’s lying about forgetting.

“Because--” He sputters, struggling for words besides _because I said so._ But really he knows what he wants to say to her, knows the truth of why he’s feeling so damn guilty about this. He swallows hard. “Because I was the one who told you guys about Kevin Bacon.”

“Yes,” she says slowly, clearly confused. “So?”

“So, I’m the only reason you thought it would be some great town in the first place,” he says. “I’m the reason it got all built up in your head and the real thing was a let down.”

She squeezes his hand, only compassion in her gaze, no judgement, which means she still doesn’t get it. “You told us of an important story in your culture, and we are honored to know it. It’s not as though you knew the town it is based on would disregard it like that.” 

This time he’s the one who won’t meet her eyes. “I should have, though. I mean, that’s--that’s the thing. I knew Footloose was just a movie. It’s based on something real but the movie isn’t real and I _knew_ that. Kevin Bacon isn’t even the name of the character! He’s just the actor and I knew that too, and I went and let all of you think he’s some great legend.” 

_’You two aren’t the first to come through town lookin’ for it to be a movie set,’_ Deb had said. He practically bristles just thinking about it. 

“Peter.” She pulls his hand into her lap and holds it with both of hers. “I will admit that when you first told me about Footloose, I didn’t picture a movie. But you told me later. You told all of us. You described the entire plot many, many times. We are all well aware it is a film. Except maybe Mantis.” 

Peter opens his mouth to argue, then closes it again. He’s so used to this kind of conversation being a struggle, to alternately defending and beating himself up for the things he loves. He isn’t prepared for acceptance even from Gamora, who accepts pretty much everything about him. Four years later, he’s still unaccustomed to having a family willing to show him compassion, still finds himself surprised and touched.

“I--If you knew it was a movie, then why did you want to come here?” he asks finally, a part of him still waiting for the other shoe to drop. He’s failed too hard for there to be no consequences, says the voice of anxiety in the back of his mind.

“Because it was important to you,” Gamora says immediately, like it ought to be obvious. She squeezes his fingers lightly, like a subconscious punctuation to that point. “Because I thought it might help you to heal. Or that I might learn something about you.”

“Well, congratulations, you learned that I’m an idiot with terrible taste, apparently,” says Peter, unable to tamp down the bitterness.

“Neither of those things are true,” she says with so much vehemence that for a second he believes her. “Is this because of what that woman said?”

He shrugs, feeling petulant. “I dunno. Not entirely. Maybe Footloose _isn’t_ as great as I remember, if nobody cares about it anymore. Or maybe they never did. That Parker kid, the spider one, he said it was never the greatest movie of all time.”

Gamora lets go of his hand, probably because she’s finally realized how stupid he must be to care about this so much, or because she’s angry at him for misleading her and the others about Kevin Bacon for all these years. 

But to his surprise, she doesn’t recoil or scoot away or start yelling at him; instead, she moves as close as she can, wrapping both her arms around him in as much of a hug as she can get while he’s still sitting, stunned, in the passenger seat. 

“I don’t care what either of them think,” she says. “I only care what you think. If you say Footloose is the greatest movie of all time, then it is.”

That's all it takes for his throat to close up and his eyes to start burning, instantly on the verge of tears again. This time there's less anger, less bitterness to dilute the cruel sharpness of grief, and that makes it all the more painful. He is not going to cry, he tells himself, though he knows it's probably a lie. He can't exactly curl his fingers into his palm in this position, and it would feel like a betrayal of Gamora's earnest concern anyway. Instead he bites the inside of his lip, tasting the familiar tang of blood. 

“I don't even know if I really think that,” he admits, the words coming with an effort, but they're mostly steady. “It's not like I've seen every movie. I just know I--"

He breaks off, swallowing, and Gamora shifts even closer, carding her fingers into his hair. 

Peter lets his head drop onto her shoulder, voice muffled against her shirt when he speaks again. “I just know I loved watching it with my mom.”

“Did you watch it often?” she asks, probably just to encourage him to keep talking. He doubts this will be the first he’s ever told her about it, considering how much he’s shared with her over the years. 

But still, it works. 

“Yeah. She really loved it. She always said she could never decide on a favorite movie, but I think we watched that one the most.”

“So it was an important tradition for you.” Her hand in his hair starts moving, practically petting it in a motion that’s extremely soothing and making it extremely difficult not to let his tears loose. He slumps further against her, letting himself be held. 

“I guess you could call it that,” he says quietly. “Sometimes we’d dance at the end, during the part when all the kids are dancing to the song.”

“The song they named the movie after?”

He nods, though doubt creeps into his brain about whether that’s even true. But the song was _definitely_ called Footloose, so it has to be. 

“Perhaps we could listen to it while we’re here on Earth,” she suggests, her tone a bit tentative but her fingers still working soothingly through his hair.

“I dunno,” Peter hedges, still feeling more bitter than anything else toward the whole thing. What if it’s not like he remembers? What if they listen and she hates the song? He doesn’t want to be angry at her, but he’s not sure whether he could forgive her for that. Probably best not to risk it at all.

Gamora sighs. “I would hate to see these people ruin your feelings toward something you love.”

“It’s not that,” he says quickly, though really that is a large part of it. He doesn’t think he would have had any of these doubts without Deb’s voice in his head, or the knowledge of how small and sad the town itself actually is. The rest, though, is just being back on Earth; confronting the things that have existed for years in his memories alone. What if they listen and _he_ doesn’t like it anymore?

“Then what is it?” 

He hesitates, not wanting to lie but really not wanting to answer that right now. “I just think you should see the movie first,” he settles on, which is true. “That’s the best way to hear the song for the first time.”

“Okay,” she says slowly. He’s not sure if she’s accepting that response or just accepting that it’s all he’s gonna say. “Would you like to watch the movie then?”

That holds the exact same scary possibility as listening to the song, but he’s kind of backed himself into a corner with his answer. “I…maybe. Yeah. Sure.”

“Peter,” she sighs. “Please don’t make this decision based on what you think I want. I only want to watch it if you do. And I definitely don’t want you to force yourself to watch it.”

“I’m not,” he says, though that’s exactly what he was doing. “I do want to watch it... But I also don’t.”

“That sounds impossible,” Knight Rider says, speaking for the first time since he picked them up. 

Peter snorts. “And yet here we are, buddy.”

“Why don’t we find a hotel?” Gamora asks, ignoring that exchange. “Then you can decide later, once we’re farther away from that place.”

“Farther is good,” he agrees. 

“How much farther would you like to go?” Knight Rider asks. “And in which direction?”

“As far as you can get by nightfall,” Peter tells him. “And I don’t care.”

“You remain confoundingly imprecise, Mr. Star-Lord.”

* * *

Peter’s almost managed to fall asleep. He hasn’t intended to doze, doesn’t even realize he’s doing it until he’s jolted back to full alertness by the car coming to a stop. 

He sits upright in a rush, running a hand through his hair, then scrubbing it over his face, trying to shake off the odd mix of grogginess and nausea that comes from napping in the car. A second later he glances instinctively over at Gamora, finds her watching him with an expression he can’t quite read, though it’s undeniably soft. 

Looking out the window, he discovers that they’re in a parking lot underneath a sign that says Budget Inn. The building in front of them isn’t exactly as rundown as that first one in Mill Hall, but it’s certainly not The Mark, either.

“Um,” he starts, then clears his throat, voice hoarse with sleep. “Where are we?”

“Cassville, Missouri,” Knight Rider says immediately. “The Budget Inn of Cassville, Missouri, to be precise.”

Peter swallows, stomach immediately in knots at the word _Missouri._ “Okay...why?”

“You indicated this as your destination, Mr. Star-Lord,” says Knight Rider.

Peter sighs. “Pretty sure I didn’t tell you to take us to Missouri, bud.”

To his surprise, the next thing Peter hears is a recording of his own voice. “ _As far as you can get by nightfall. And I don’t care._ ”

Knight Rider pauses for a moment, as if for emphasis, then adds, “The sun will set in approximately two minutes. Therefore, it is night fall. Unless you were wanting to sleep on the side of the road…”

“Nah,” he says lightly. “Too many people there.” 

“Is this okay?” Gamora asks quietly, as if she’s going to be able to give him privacy from the car while they’re _in_ it. “We haven’t been in Missouri very long, we can always—“ 

“No, no, this is fine,” he says, waving her off. “We drove through here before, it’s not a big deal. Thanks for the ride, buddy.” He pats the dash.

“You are welcome, Mr. Star-Lord… By the way, the film _Footloose_ , released in 1984, grossed $80 million, making it the seventh most successful movie that year.” 

He blinks, confused at that out of nowhere information. “Um, okay.” 

“It was a successful film, seen by many people.” 

“Knight Rider,” he says slowly. “Are you trying to make me feel better?” 

“I am merely offering you statistics on a film you expressed interest in.” 

He lets out a rueful laugh; he’s so pathetic about this movie that even the car feels sorry for him. “Well, thanks for the info. I guess seventh place isn’t too bad.” 

“It sounds like an honorable rank,” Gamora says, which is nearly laughable from her, the most competitive person he’s ever met. This time she’s the one who doesn’t give Knight Rider a chance to respond, switching the car off and climbing out.

Peter sighs, following her. “You don’t have to say that. I don’t need pity.”

“It’s not pity,” she counters. “It is my opinion.”

“Bullshit,” he insists, as they step into the surprisingly chilly air conditioning of the lobby. The desk is all the way on the other side of the deceptively large room. “You don’t really think that--”

“ _Do not_ tell me what I think!” she says sharply, whirling around so fast that he nearly runs into her.

“Whoa!” He holds up both hands, palms forward in surrender. “Whoa, whoa. Okay. I’m sorry, I just--”

“No,” she insists. “It’s bad enough that you insist on beating yourself up, Peter. You will _not_ use my words to do it too.”

He opens his mouth, closes it again, then nods. “Yes, ma’am.” He knows how much Gamora hates the idea of hurting him, of causing any sort of harm to innocents, but especially to him. He’s certainly not going to do anything she associates even a little bit with that.

“Good,” she says, softening. She hooks her arm through his and guides him to the front desk, as if he might lose his way otherwise. This time she takes care of booking the room from the young man at the front desk, who gapes at her the entire time. Peter’s on edge, waiting for an incident, but the kid is either too intimidated or too in awe to say anything. 

As the kid’s running the credit card Gamora had handed him, Peter catches sight of the car key she puts back into her pocket. Stark had given both of them a key, but he’s never seen Gamora use hers. Until possibly today, he’s just realizing. 

“How did Knight Rider know where to pick us up?” he asks quietly.

“I called him,” she says, like it’s obvious. When he still doesn’t totally get it, she pulls the key out and shows him a button on it. “With this.”

“How did you know it did that?”

She sighs. “Really, Peter? Stark told us. You were there.”

“Oh.” He shrugs one shoulder. “I stopped listening to that spiel after a while.”

“Apparently Drax has had a bad influence on you.” Gamora punches the button for the elevator, and casually shoots a withering look at the kid at the desk, who’s still watching them.

“No way,” says Peter, attempting the switch to humor that’s not angry or bitter. “I’ve always been way better than Drax at not listening.”

She rewards him with a soft snort. “True. I stand corrected.”

He’s prepared himself to be disappointed by this hotel room, to have it be another one that sucks, but when Gamora opens the door, he’s pleasantly surprised. It’s simple, relatively bare, but everything seems to function well enough. 

Peter flops down on the edge of the bed and kicks off his boots, expecting that she’ll go change into pajamas, like she has every other night so far on this trip. Instead she sits beside him, resting a hand on his shoulder and then shifting it down to his back, rubbing big, slow circles.

He swallows, torn between enjoying the touch and fighting down the emotions it immediately brings back to the surface. “What are you doing?”

“I know that this is difficult for you,” she says softly, like that’s any kind of answer. There’s no judgment in her voice, just concern, and somehow that’s almost worse. “All of this.”

“We both had a rough few days,” he hedges. “Well, a rough…while.” 

“We did,” she agrees. “But I meant being back on your home planet. Having to see all this again. You have always been reluctant to come here.” 

“It’s no big deal,” he says immediately, though he knows the second the words come out of his mouth that she won’t believe them. 

She’s brought up the idea of returning to Earth a few times in the past four years, always tentatively and always dropping it when he invariably responds in the negative, brushes it off and instantly changes the subject. She seemed to think it would be a good or healing experience for him, but he always bristled at the idea. 

But then...then they were here. 

“Peter,” she sighs. 

“Okay,” he relents, allowing himself to relax into the way she’s still running her hand over his back; she knows exactly how to touch him. “Some of it’s kinda...weird. And it’s all _different_. Stuff looks different and works different and people act different… I swear I thought everyone loved Footloose when I was a kid.” 

“Perhaps they did,” she says easily. 

“Or I'm just an idiot,” Peter says bitterly. 

Gamora wrinkles her nose at him in clear disapproval. “ _Or_ you were a child, Peter.”

He pouts a bit. “What's that supposed to mean?”

She shifts her hand higher on his back, working her fingers into the hair at the nape of his neck, and then the tense muscles there. “It means that as children, we have a different perspective. Things were bound to be different than you remembered, because things change in time. But also because _you_ are different, Peter. That isn't a bad thing.”

“Sure feels like it right now,” he says petulantly, though he knows what she's saying is true. And isn't that part of why he's avoided Earth for so long? Coming back here means it's a living entity again, not just a collection of memories, frozen in time in his mind. 

“That feeling will change with time, too,” she says. 

He sighs and drops his head to her shoulder. Her arm comes around his shoulders, still massaging the back of his neck in a way that makes him slump against her. “What if it doesn’t? What if Earth is so different that none of it will ever feel the same again?”

“Does it have to be exactly the same to still be good?” she asks. “You said some things at the fair were different than what you were used to, right? But we still had fun.”

“Yeah,” he admits, somewhat reluctantly. “It’s not all bad, it’s just...different. I don’t know. It’s dumb.”

“It’s not dumb.” Her hand pauses for a second in his hair, and he can feel her body tense just slightly against him. “Are you okay with being back here? We can go back to Knight Rider and head back to the Compound right now if you want, get out of here.” 

“No,” he says immediately, rejecting that idea without consideration. He can feel in the way her body shifts that she doesn’t want to do it either, though he loves her for her willingness to do anything he needs.

“Because you are worried about me?” she asks, her tone searching, but still somehow tentative.

Peter turns his face further into her shoulder, not wanting her to see just how right she is. “Not--just because of that.”

“So you _are_ worried about me,” says Gamora. She softens before he has a chance to protest. “Well, I suppose that’s fair. I’m worried about you too.”

“You don’t have to--” he starts instinctively, but doesn’t get a chance to finish.

“That is not your choice, and I am not having that argument with you.” She softens again a moment later, leaning over to press a kiss to the top of his head. “You said ‘not just because.’ So what are the other reasons?”

“Oh.” Peter takes a breath, tries to find the words to articulate it. “Well, I guess--You know, things _are_ different. Maybe--maybe part of me wants to see some more of that? Besides, today _sucked._ I don’t want that to be the last thing that happened to me on Earth.”

“Then it won’t be,” she says. “Some things have been good, right? You enjoyed the fair.” 

He smiles a bit, thinking of the bear she’d won, how much she’d loved the rides. “Yeah, those funnel cake toppings were a good change.” 

“They were excellent,” she agrees. “Are there other things you want to revisit while we’re here?” 

“I don’t know,” he says automatically, the idea of _revisiting_ certain things making his heart hammer. 

“We are in Missouri,” she continues, and then she gasps, and says the thing he’s been afraid of her remembering for days now. “Peter. Your grandfather.” 

“Oh,” he says, as if the thought had just occurred to him as well. “Yeah.” 

“I’m so sorry, Peter,” she says regretfully, surprising him. 

“What? Why?” 

“That should have been the first thing we did. Instead we’ve spent the trip trying to distract _me_ and make _me_ feel better. I completely forgot you still had family here. I’ve been—“

“Don’t say you’ve been selfish,” he cuts her off, lifting his head. “I didn’t think of it either.” 

She shakes her head. “Because you were so focused on me. While we are on your home planet.” 

“Gamora…” He forces himself to take a breath and blow it out slowly, to come up with some response that isn't either dismissing her concern outright or admitting that he's been grateful for her distraction. “Do you have any idea how much I've thought about showing you Earth? Like, fantasized about this stuff?”

A tiny smile plays across her lips. “Well, considering that you have mentioned it at least once every day since I met you...yes, I may have had some idea.”

He can't help smiling too, in spite of everything. “Okay, yeah. So subtlety’s not really my thing. But the point is...The point is, you shouldn't be sorry. My grandpa is...I dunno. Practically a stranger now, if he's even still alive. And you--You’re everything. Every single thing. You _should_ come before my grandfather, because you're way more important.”

For a long moment she just looks at him, a multitude of emotions he can't quite read flickering across her face. Then she leans in again in a rush, and kisses him absolutely breathless. 

He’s surprised but he responds without a second’s hesitation, cradling the back of her head and resting a hand on her waist. Her lips are soft and gentle and _fire_ against his at the same time, an intoxicating blend of tenderness and passion. He’d never stop kissing her if he could get over this pesky need for air. 

Even Gamora is breathing hard when they pull apart, and her lung capacity is like, way higher than his. 

“Mora, what was—?” 

“You have always put me first,” she says, cupping his face in both hands. She’s looking at him so intensely that he can practically feel her emotions burning through him. “And yet sometimes it still takes me by surprise.” 

Completely ignoring his need for air, he dives in for another kiss, unable to help himself. She tightens her arms around him, pressing herself up against him, as if they can meld into one. 

When he has to pull away again, he does it only far enough for air to fit between their lips, continuing to kiss her between sentences. “I will always put you first. You _are_ first. Nothing else is an option for me.” 

She rests her hand against his cheek, again, leaning back just far enough to meet his gaze. There are tears in her eyes now, he sees, catching the light but not falling. 

“What?” he whispers, his own throat growing tight again. His hand shakes ever so slightly as he reaches up, tracing his thumb along her lower lip. She’s still wearing the Star Wars shirt, hair twisted up in her Princess Leia tribute, and suddenly he’s overwhelmed again by just _how much_ he loves her.

“I have--a confession to make,” she says, her eyes flicking downward, then back up again. 

Peter swallows, feeling his heart rate accelerate immediately. He knows there are a lot of things Gamora hasn’t told him yet, has had the sense that she’s still hiding many of the horrors she experienced in the Stone, and with Thanos. He’s spent the past few days waiting for the other shoe to drop, and now it’s about to. He takes a deep breath and steels himself, determined to support her no matter what. “What is it?”

“I have always worried what would happen if you returned to Earth,” she says softly. “I was afraid that I might--lose you.”

Peter blinks. “You-- _what_?”

“This was your home,” she says. “That you were taken from. There are others here like you, and I thought if you returned here and remembered that—“ 

“That I’d want to _stay_ here?” he asks, seeing where she’s going yet still absolutely baffled. “What, _without_ you?” 

She shrugs helplessly. “You never wanted to be abducted, forced to live on a ship.” 

“Neither of us did,” he points out. “But this isn’t my home anymore. It’s my home planet, but the Quadrant is my home, _you_ are my home. I’d live in a box floating through space with you, and I wouldn’t live in a palace without you. Or on Earth, or anywhere.” 

“Peter.” She kisses him again, lips trembling slightly against his. “But if you _wanted_ to—“ 

“I don’t,” he says vehemently. “And I never would. I love living on the ship with you and the others. I mean it, Mora; this isn’t my home anymore, and it never will be again.” 

She pulls back again, searches his face. “Are you sure? I don’t want you to feel like you have to give up living here if that’s what you really want.”

“I'm _sure,_ ” says Peter, with every bit of vehemence he can muster. “You couldn't pay me. Actually no, you couldn't do _anything_ to make me be without you. I'd rather--" He stops himself a moment too late, realizing how distressing that thought would be to her. 

“--die,” she finishes, because of course she doesn't need to hear it to know what he meant. “I know. You tried. Several times, in fact.”

“What can I say?” He aims at levity, falls short. 

“Peter…” She shakes her head, swallows audibly. 

“What?” Peter traces a fingertip down the side of her neck, stopping just over her pulse point. 

“I just--" She breaks off, shrugs. “I love you.”

“I love you too,” he says immediately, warmly. “And I'm not going anywhere without you. Except, you know, probably to the bathroom at some point in the future. Though if you really _wanted_ \--”

“ _Peter!_ ” She’s laughing now, though. Success. 

“Okay,” says Peter. “No joint bathroom breaks. Check.” He pretends to write a mental note in the air. 

Gamora shakes her head again, her expression equal parts affectionate and despairing. Then she runs her hand down his back again, almost idly. “You're really tense. You want a massage?”

“Yes, please,” he says without hesitation, pulling his shirt off and tossing it across the room. “Assholes give me cramps.”

Gamora says nothing to that, but he can hear the silent laughter in her breathing as he stretches out on the bed.


	19. Chapter 19

“You’ve got to be kidding me.” Peter stops in his tracks, staring dumbfounded at the beginning of the _third_ steep hill they’ve come to on this trail. “This is worse than that hike we did before!” 

Gamora, already casually strolling up the hill as if it’s not at like a 70 degree angle, turns around to give him a look. “You are the one who chose this location.” 

“I know,” he says, pouting. “But why does it have to be so far away?”

“I thought you said we should go to this one specifically because it is far away.” 

“No,” he says, finally following her because she’s getting too far away to hear and doesn’t appear to want to stop. “It’s because the sales lady said this is the most private.”

“Perhaps the steep hike has something to do with that.”

He thinks about sighing, but doesn’t want to waste the oxygen. He’s in pretty damn good shape if he says so himself -- which he usually does -- but they’ve been at this for nearly an hour now, and he’s carrying a huge pack on his back. Gamora is too, of course, not that she’s showing any sign of fatigue. 

It’ll be worth it, he tells himself. He _had_ suggested camping specifically to get away from other people, for both of their sakes. Just talking to the woman who sold them the camping spot had him tense and anxious. 

If he’s being completely honest, he’s also suggested it because if they’re here, they’re not on their way to visit his grandpa. Gamora hasn’t mentioned that again, but he has the distinct sense that she hasn’t really forgotten, is just biding her time until there’s an opportunity to bring it up. Either that or she thinks she’s protecting him, like he might be too fragile to handle that reminder again right now. 

That thought bothers him, of course, but not enough to bring it up himself. He’ll take the reprieve, whatever the reason. Plus he’s managed to get a few hours of actual sleep for the first time in a few days, practically a puddle of relaxation after her massage. He’s gonna need another one of those after this hike, he thinks. Which, really, might make the way his lungs and his muscles are currently burning worthwhile.

“Rocket boots?” he suggests, when they’ve both been silent for longer than a few moments. There’s a bird calling somewhere off in the distance, and Peter curses it for its ability to breathe better than he can right now. 

Gamora shakes her head without turning around. “You can, if you would like.”

“I _would_ like,” says Peter, and fires up the jetpacks. 

For a moment he’s launched into the air as expected, his feet and legs thanking him for putting the exertion to an end. But that lasts for all of about five seconds before gravity remembers the heavy pack on his back, and he finds himself flipped nearly upside down, the boots dragging him along as he struggles to keep his head from hitting the ground.

“Peter!” Gamora says, alarmed. He can’t see her because of the way he’s facing, but he can hear her footsteps as she runs towards him. “Deactivate the boots, I’ll catch you!” 

Not really in a position to argue, he twists himself up so his head is as far away from the ground as possible and does as told, finding himself in Gamora’s arms a second later, his nose an inch from the ground. 

She lifts him up, holding him as if cradling him, and giving him a look somewhere between concerned, amused, and exasperated. “Are you all right?” 

He blushes, feeling it spread all the way down his neck. “Yep! Peachy. What are the chances you wanna carry me the rest of the way like this?” 

She shakes her head, the concern part of her expression fading away. “Slim, unless you are injured.” 

“Oh, my leg,” he says piteously. 

Gamora rolls her eyes and sets him down. “Perhaps you should stay on your feet.” 

“Or I just need to balance this better,” he says, examining his pack. “Hey, here’s this: if I carry _you_ that’ll balance it out!” 

“Except,” says Gamora, “then your upper body will be carrying the weight of my body _and_ two packs.”

“Hey,” says Peter. “Are you implying that I lack in upper body strength?”

She crosses her arms. “I am _implying_ that it would be more weight than I have ever seen you lift, and I have no interest in experiencing the Terran medical system through you injuring yourself.”

He pouts. “I have totally lifted that much before.”

She ignores him, but holds out a hand. “Would you like me to carry your pack for you? That would likely make things easier.”

“No!” he says immediately, pride flaring up again. “You’re--”

“I am _not_ still healing, Peter,” she interrupts. “I am fine. You, on the other hand, still aren’t sleeping, or eating particularly well. You would not be having difficulty with this trail if you were taking care of yourself.”

“It’s steep!” he insists, unsettled by that.

“You have handled much worse in the past,” she says. Then, clearly reading the look on his face, adds, “This isn’t an insult, Peter. You just need to let yourself recover. Your knees aren’t even healed yet.”

He glances down, but of course he can’t see his bandages through his pants. “They’re better.”

“That isn’t saying much considering the state they were in.” She looks him up and down, as if evaluating. He tries to even his breathing. “Give me your pack.”

“Gamora, really, I’m fine--”

Her eyes narrow. “That wasn’t a request.”

He bites his lip and slowly sides the pack off one shoulder, feeling himself blush even deeper, shame practically radiating off of him. He knows she wants to take care of him too, but he can’t help but feel like he should at least be able to pull his own weight here. 

“Peter,” she says, voice soft. “Look at me. You know I have enhancements that help me with this kind of thing. I could hold you and both packs over my head with one hand and still be fine.”

“Yeah,” says Peter, shame and insecurity shifting toward anger again as he thinks about Thor, about _you’re a dude_ and _you’re one sandwich away from being fat._ Then he remembers Zax in the Wal-Mart, commiserating with Gamora about fragile Terran lovers. Ordinarily he doesn’t mind that she’s stronger than he is--Actually, most of the time he finds it a huge turn-on. Right now, though, it’s just making him feel like even more of a failure.

“Shall we continue?” Gamora suggests, slinging his pack over her shoulder like it’s nothing, not even fazed by the fact that she’s now carrying two, up a hill.

“Sure,” he says absently, but can’t quite let it go after a few minutes of pack-free hiking. “Hey, what if _I_ got mods?”

Gamora stops short, turning to face him, a mix of shock and horror on her face. “ _What_?”

“You know,” he says, keeping his voice casual despite the way she’s looking at him. “Just a couple. Increase my strength, maybe my lung capacity or something—“ 

“Are you _serious_?” she hisses, some of her shock transforming into anger. “Do you think this is just some kind of plastic surgery you can get done over the weekend?” 

“Wha—no!” he starts, but she doesn’t let him finish. 

“Do you know how often I wish I’d never gotten these? That Thanos had never—“ This time she cuts herself off, both of their breath catching at his name. 

“Whoa, hey,” he says, heart hammering, as horrified as her now. “I’m sorry, Mora, I just thought maybe if I was stronger I could...be better for you.” 

She looks like she’s about to cry, and he moves beyond horror into absolutely _hating himself_ for upsetting her this much. 

“Peter,” she breathes, stepping closer to him. “You are already the best person I have ever known. What is making you think that I’d want you to change anything about yourself?” 

“I couldn't protect you,” he repeats, swallowing down the nausea that accompanies the self-loathing. At this rate, maybe he can complete this show of being utterly pathetic by puking on top of everything else. 

Gamora sighs. “I thought we had agreed that we weren't going to blame ourselves for that anymore.”

Peter crosses his arms, not quite succeeding at keeping the petulance out of his tone. “Yeah, we did. How's that working for you? Conscience all free and clear yet?”

She mirrors his posture, impossibly graceful despite the dual packs that probably weigh as much as she does between them. “No. But I am trying. I am not being self-destructive.”

“Oh, really?” he says bitterly. “How’d you sleep last night?”

“Fantastically,” she says tartly. 

“ _Really_?” he goads. “Because I'm pretty damn sure you kept yourself awake again.”

“What is this?” she asks, ignoring that particular barb. “You won't believe that you're what I want, so instead you’ve decided to make yourself a dick?”

“Being concerned about you makes me a dick? Fine, I guess I’m a dick then!” 

She narrows her eyes, glaring so hard he’s half afraid she’s going to develop the ability to melt him from sheer force of will. “No. Being _a dick_ about it makes you a dick. Accusing me of lying and not believing me when I tell you over and over that I’m okay makes you a dick.”

“Then that’s fine too,” he says with a humorless laugh, “because how am I supposed to believe you when it’s so clear you’re lying? I know you’ve been staying up at night, you’re not exactly eating like normal either, and you’re still not--” 

He stops himself but it’s too late; she’s already followed his gaze to her clothed abdomen and clearly followed his train of thought as well. For a split second her face falls, the mask of anger melting into pure distress and now he really feels like a dick.

“You’re still not letting me help you carry those packs,” he finishes weakly, a futile attempt to reverse his mistake. 

“Let’s just get to the campsite,” she says cooly, turning around and marching up the hill without another word. 

Peter watches her go for a moment in horror, unable to move or react despite the way that his thoughts are racing, full of desperation. He thinks of Ego and _I thought you already had_ , of the way the room had seemed resoundingly empty after she’d left. How he’d questioned then whether she’d ever come back, had been pretty sure he’d deserve it if she didn’t. 

Now he feels as though she’s walking out of his life again, slipping away, and here he is, powerless to stop it. She’s come back from the literal dead and he’s going to lose her after all, because that’s just how his life goes. Maybe his superpower is losing the people that he loves most.

“Peter!” she calls over her shoulder, from several hundred feet up the trail. “Are you coming or do I need to come carry you?”

He gapes stupidly for a second before scrambling to follow, practically running up the hill after her, heedless of how sore his legs are and how much he’d just complained about the steepness of the trail. 

“I’m coming,” he pants, once he’s close enough for her to hear without him yelling. She nods once, then turns around and starts walking again.

She at least _wants_ him to catch up, he thinks. He tries to focus on that, and on the nature surrounding them, to calm his racing heart.

It’s a pretty path. Lots of tall trees and… well, mostly it’s just trees right now, even as the path starts to flatten and widen, but that’s something. 

He and Gamora are quiet as they walk. Even when the path widens enough to allow two people side by side, he walks next to her but doesn’t dare reach for her hand, afraid of how he’d be received. She’s holding herself stiffly as she walks, eyes determinedly forward, hands gripping the straps of the bags. 

He doesn’t say anything until the sound of running water reaches his ears. “We must be getting close. That’s probably the stream the sales lady told us about.” 

She makes a noncommittal noise, though she perks up slightly at that. The stream had been the most enticing part of the pitch for her. 

The site, when they finally reach it, is helpfully marked with a wooden sign bearing the name of the rental company they’d purchased it from, as well as the number twelve. He pauses, taking it in.

It’s about what he expected: basically a small clearing, surrounded on all sides by trees. In the middle there’s a circle of large rocks where he assumes the tent is supposed to go, as well as a firepit helpfully stocked with wood, a small, dirty grill, and a wooden picnic table. 

Other than that there’s not much of note except, of course, the thing that drew Gamora’s attention immediately: the stream just visible through the trees on the other side of the rock circle. 

“You wanna go look at it?” he asks Gamora, intending it as an olive branch. The tension radiating off her is still thick enough to cut with a knife, reminding him heartbreakingly of the first few days after they met. He thinks, again, of how far she's come, and how far Thanos has set her back. 

“I can see it from here,” says Gamora. “My vision is enhanced.”

Peter sighs. It's not like he's forgotten about her enhancements--the good or bad parts of them. It's just that he aches so badly to feel like _enough._

“Do you want to go look _closer_ at it?” he suggests, as patiently as he can manage. “Maybe put your feet in the water? I'll go with you if you're--"

“Don't patronize me,” she snaps, moving with the force of those words and setting both packs down in the center of the circle. “I knew what you meant. And I am not afraid of going anywhere alone.”

“I never said that you were,” says Peter, heartrate accelerating again. He's about to apologize again, about to tell her he's an idiot, when she speaks first. 

“You know what? Actually some solitude sounds like a welcome change. I think I will go look.”

Then she's walking away toward the stream, and he's alone with his thoughts. 

Suddenly suggesting she go look at the water seems like the worst idea he’s ever had, like he’s practically goaded her into leaving him. But she’s not leaving him. She’s barely going twenty feet away from him. He knows this. 

“Fine,” he mutters, not caring that it’s loud enough for her enhanced hearing to pick up. As usual, anger is a lot easier than whatever else he wants to feel, so he latches onto that, as well as the only task available to him right now: setting up the tent. 

He opens up the bag that holds the tent and unceremoniously dumps the contents out, letting out a few angry noises when the canvas gets stuck and he has to shake the bag to get it out. He revels in the frustration, anything to keep his train of thought from veering off track, onto the one where Gamora walks away from him because she can’t stand him anymore, because she’s finally realized she doesn’t want him --

He shakes himself and stoops down to pick up the tent pieces off the ground, realizing as he does so that he doesn’t actually know how to set up this kind of a tent. 

He’s used plenty of temporary shelters before on various jobs -- pods, of course, and personal forcefields. One time he did use a tent, kind of, except that it was compressed small enough to fit into his pocket, and set itself up with the push of one button. 

This tent is significantly bigger, heavier, and in more pieces. They’ve rented it from the woman who sold them the campsite itself, and it smells vaguely musty, or maybe like somebody dunked it in the stream and it didn’t quite dry all the way. Or maybe he’s just judging it unfairly because it hasn’t pitched itself.

He grimaces as he bends over, knees protesting the movement, though it’s not like he really has a choice. The pain from that feeds his irritation, which feels oddly satisfying in the moment. At least it’s something different from the knot that’s been sitting in the pit of his stomach practically since they started the hike. 

Digging through the assorted tent parts, he realizes that there are absolutely no instructions. Well, that’s fine then. How difficult can this be? 

About ten minutes later, Gamora returns to find him with some sort of bungee rope wrapped around his arm, the huge canvas tarp thing twisted up on the ground, and him about five seconds away from crushing the pole he’s holding with his bare hands. 

So much for proving he’s not useless. 

“...Are you okay?”

“Just peachy,” he says bitterly. He kicks at another nearby pole, cursing at it when that sends a sharp pain through his toes. “Stupid thing. It won’t do what it’s supposed to.”

Gamora apparently is feeling a little better because she doesn’t snap at him, just sighs and holds a hand out. “Let me help.”

“I can do it!” he says quickly, holding the pole closer to his chest. 

She presses her lips into a hard line -- not feeling _that_ much better, he supposes -- before responding, “So can I. Let me help.”

“Fine.” He pouts and hands over the pole. “But it’s harder than it looks. Dumb thing didn’t come with instructions.”

“I’m sure we can figure it out.”

He plops himself down on one of the large logs surrounding the firepit and watches with part awe, part irritation as she manages to completely assemble a perfect tent in about five minutes.

“How did you do that?” he asks, as she finishes securing the last piece. He’s pretty sure the answer is just that she’s Gamora, which means that she’s _amazing_ at everything, and also the universe conspires to make her look great, because it knows she’s the most incredible woman in it. But still. He’s pretty sure there’s at least some practice involved in that performance too.

She gives him a look, clearly reluctant to answer. “Common sense.”

He’d feel defensive about that, would probably take it as an insult, were it not for the change he can see in the lines of her body. It isn’t the same tension as before, isn’t just exhaustion or irritability. This is _vulnerability_ , the kind that almost always has something to do with her past.

“You don’t have to tell me,” he says Peter, softening a bit. He _hates_ fighting with her, hates that he can’t just talk to her, can’t comfort her like he usually does. 

She sighs. “I have had to make many shelters for myself, Peter. On many of my assignments, the only shelter I had was what I made for myself.”

“Oh,” he says, feeling stupid. He _knows_ this about her. “Right.” 

She shrugs, staying crouched down by the entrance to the tent. It’s getting dark, but there’s still enough light for him to see the shiver wrack her body. All he wants to do is jump across the small distance between them and wrap her up in a hug that lasts for hours, hold her and assure her that she’ll never have to live like that ever again. 

But she’s still tense, and so is he. So he doesn’t. 

“Hey, why don’t we start a fire?” he suggests casually. “It’s gonna get hard to see soon.”

“Sure,” she says, matching his tone.

She stands up, but before she has a chance to demonstrate more of her survival skills, he reaches into his pocket and takes out the firestarter he’d stolen from Rocket before they left the compound. It’s a small square button that he presses, then flicks the little circle that pops out into the pit. Flames spring to life, about twice as tall as the pit itself. 

The fire dances and warms him on the outside, but it only makes him shiver harder, reminding him instantly of Knowhere, of the Collector’s burning around him as he stooped to pick up Gamora’s sword from where she’d dropped it --

“Peter?” 

He wants to tell her. He wants to tell her, and touch her, and let her comfort him, more than anything. But she's not letting him do that for her. She's not asking him for the reassurance she so desperately needs, still isn't telling him all of the things that are haunting her, he's pretty sure. Instead she's pretending that everything is normal and fine while refusing to sleep at night. Well, that's fine then. Two can play that game. 

Peter shakes himself and plasters on his best charming smile, like she might be a mark. “Wow! This thing sure does work good!” He tosses the starter up in the air, then catches it deftly. 

Gamora blinks at him, but apparently makes the same decisions to let the bullshit continue. “It certainly does. So...we have a tent and a fire. What is the next step in the Terran camping tradition?” She's studiously ignoring the orange light coming through the trees as the sun goes down. 

His experience with Terran camping is limited to backyards and living rooms, mostly with his mom and once with his grandpa. But telling her that right now is too much vulnerability, too much like admitting he’s not 100% A-okay, so he just says, “Well, are you hungry? We could make s’mores like I was telling you about! Or those sandwiches we packed.” 

“We should eat dinner before dessert,” she says. He can see that it pains her to say that, her sweet tooth aching for s’mores, but she’s denying herself. 

“C’mon,” he cajoles as she stands up and comes over to the fire. “Groot’s not here. You don’t have to set a good example.” 

She smiles tightly. “Let’s stick with sandwiches, anyway.” 

Instead of sitting down next to him on the same log, where there’s plenty of room, she chooses the log adjacent to his instead. It’s not like she’s far away -- he could still reach out and touch her -- but it’s different than what she would normally do. She’s still holding herself stiff, distant from him. He tries not to let it hurt. 

“Yes, ma’am,” he says, and digs around in the bag for their cooler. 

The sandwiches are simple enough -- packaged slices of ham and cheese on whitebread, the exact sort of thing he remembers taking for school lunches. He's not ambitious enough to try cooking anything over a campfire. Well, anything except marshmallows. He pulls the first sandwich out and offers it to Gamora, trying not to be disappointed or worried by her tiny nod of acknowledgment. He's not exactly excited about the sandwiches either, but he prefers to give her things he knows she'll enjoy. 

He takes a bite of his own sandwich and forces himself to look into the fire, a little play at the sort of masochism that feels so very deserved lately. The sun has finished setting now, and it's getting slightly chilly, making him wish yet again that Gamora was sitting closer. The woods around them seem to be coming alive, too, with the sounds of soft breeze and insects, and probably some kind of bird off in the distance. It gives him a weird sense of nostalgia, for both summers with his mom and grandpa, and for the more recent time on Berhert. That's where they’d begun the new, fragile thing that grew into the relationship he now considers his ultimate touchstone. 

Looking up instinctively, he catches Gamora's eye in the firelight, then realizes that she's not eating. 

“Everything okay?” he asks, knowing it isn’t. 

“Fine,” she says mechanically.

“You sure you don’t wanna skip ahead to s’mores?” he asks, nodding toward her completely uneaten sandwich. “I know these aren’t exactly gourmet—“ 

She glances down, seemingly just realizing she’s holding it, and finally takes a bite. “They are fine.” 

“Yeah, everything’s fine, huh?” he says, unable to keep the hurt and bitterness from escaping. “That’s what we’re going with?” 

She somehow tenses even more, narrowing her eyes at him. “I don’t know what you mean.”

“I mean that you’re not okay!” He tears off a piece of his sandwich and chucks it into the fire. “And you’re not letting me help. You keep telling me stuff about the Stone and what’s bothering you but it’s _never_ the whole story. If you don’t trust me just say so, but don’t pretend you’re okay.” 

“It has nothing to do with not trusting you!” she snaps, or tries to; her voice shakes slightly, dampening the effect. “I am trying to protect you, Peter!” 

“Protect me from _what_?” he asks. “Is it still—are you afraid of the Stone still? Could it do something?” 

“ _No!_ ” she snaps, though there’s unmistakable alarm in her tone and her expression. “In fact, it has probably been destroyed by now.”

“Do you think you’d be able to tell when it was?” asks Peter, wondering whether the others would have called or sent a message. Maybe not, though, if they’d thought it would be upsetting, or a bother.

Her expression turns to disdain, or maybe even disgust. “No. What am I, _connected_ to it now? Its...host?”

Peter holds up both hands in a gesture of surrender. “I dunno, you did say it talked to you as _you._ ”

“While my soul was inside of it!” says Gamora, like that ought to be obvious.

“And you think a part of it might still be!” Peter blurts, words tumbling out like the dam’s burst, like they might as well be actual vomit. “You won’t talk to me, and you’re not sleeping, and you’re still not silver! If that’s not what it is, then you’d better tell me _what_.”

“I am not _connected_ to the Stone!” she insists, though he’s pretty sure he can hear outright fear in her voice now. Or maybe he’s projecting that.

“Then what?” he demands, leaning toward her.

Gamora bristles further, practically in combat mode. “Then _nothing_ , Peter.”

He growls in frustration, then turns away from her, mechanically continuing to eat. He wants to yell, wants to scream, wants to tear his hair out in frustration. He knows better than that, though. It would be disastrous--Gamora would either shut down or react instinctively, and one or both of them would get hurt. So instead he chokes down his anger with whitebread. A rage sandwich. It would be funny if he wasn’t so damn upset.

She sighs heavily, letting a few more moments stretch out in agonizingly tense silence before finally speaking again. “Strange saw all of the possible outcomes for--Thanos.”

“Yeah,” says Peter, caught off guard. He isn’t following her logic, but he keeps talking anyway, wanting to reassure her. “This was the only possible way for us to defeat him.”

Gamora shakes her head. “No. That’s not what I mean.”

He sets the sandwich down, turning back to her. “Then what?”

“ _I_ saw all of the possible outcomes.” She swallows visibly, the muscles in her throat twitching. “For you.”

“For me...in the battle?” he asks, heart jumping into his throat. 

Her grip around her sandwich tightens; he can see her fingers digging into the bread. She’s quiet for another beat, and it’s all he can do not to press her, beg her to end his misery and just _tell_ him. 

“For your life,” she says finally. Her voice wavers, the control she was never really holding onto slipping even farther. “For all the ways it could...play out.”

“Oh my god,” he breathes. He can’t _imagine_ what that must have been like, can scarcely even process what she’s just told him. No wonder she’s been so tense. “ _How?_ ”

“I don’t know.” She’s still staring into the fire as if she’s seeing what she’s talking about inside it. “It happened when I was wielding the Stone. I was thinking about you, and then all of a sudden...I was _seeing_. Different from the shadows, different from the battle. It was almost like I was watching it on a holotape.”

He’s feeling nauseous again, absolutely horrified by what she’s telling him. He regrets eating before this conversation. “ _Fuck_ , Mora, You...I mean— _all_?”

She nods, then pauses, shakes her head. “It was probably not quite all. There must be countless ways. But—tens of thousands. Maybe more.”

“You had to watch me die thousands of times?”

She shakes her head again. Her fingers are shaking too, where they’re tearing holes into her sandwich. “No. Well, yes. But it wasn’t… That wasn’t all I saw. It wasn’t always how you died.”

Peter swallows again, tasting bile in the back of his throat. There’s a significant part of him that regrets pushing her, regrets bringing this up, especially now, when they’re alone in the middle of the goddamn woods, the ghost of Ego practically sitting on his shoulder. He wants to rewind time, to un-learn this horror. To make it so that she can too. 

For half a second he entertains the thought of going back to the Compound, hoping against hope that the Time Stone hasn’t already been destroyed. But he knows better--he _knows_ Infinity Stones always come with a price, usually one that’s unexpected. That’s definitely not something they can afford, and he can only imagine the horror on Gamora’s face at the mere suggestion. So, there it is.

He has no choice but to hear the rest, having begged her to open up, to trust him. He’s offered himself in sacrifice, in a way. Now it’s time to deliver.

“What was it, then?” he asks finally, voice as steady as he can manage. “What did you see?”

She shrugs, the movement so stiff it can’t even pretend at casual. “The middles, I suppose. Or right after the battle. Or somewhere towards the end. Sometimes I only saw glimpses, a few seconds. Sometimes I saw the entire timeline, but sped up like the holotape was on fast forward.” 

“My god-- _Mora_.” All concerns about the tension or awkwardness of before suddenly melt away and he’s up off his log, wedging beside her on hers and wrapping his arms around her. She’s still tense, hugging herself and shivering occasionally, but she relaxes almost imperceptibly against him. “I’m so sorry. _Fuck_. I can’t even imagine.” 

“You sacrificed yourself for me,” she says. It might sound accusatory if her voice wasn’t wobbling. She’s just barely holding back tears but it’s almost as if she can’t stop talking now that she’s started. “A lot of the times. Or for the team. Once, we all died in a ship crash. But other times I’d see you mid-battle, or piloting through a space fight, or--” She chokes, shakes her head, shivers intensifying. 

“Or?” asks Peter, voice barely more than a whisper, a breath. He wishes they were somewhere else, anywhere else, as long as it would allow him to pull her closer, shield her somehow from the images he knows have to be playing over and over in her mind. If he were to try to do that here, he knows he'd lose his balance, send them both spilling onto the ground behind the log. At least that might make her smile at his expense. 

“Or being tortured,” she says finally, her voice breaking on the words. She clears her throat so hard that it has to be painful, clearly forcing herself to continue. “To protect me.”

“Well,” says Peter, the words spilling out so fast again that he can't even curse his own lack of impulse control like usual. “That's good, I guess.”

It's a good thing he's holding onto her, because her reaction is so violent that it probably would have sent her sprawling to the ground anyway. “ _What_?”

He sets his jaw; he's committed to this now. “You know I would _want_ to sacrifice myself for you, if it came to that. I'd want it every time.”

“No, _no_!” she practically shouts, like the sound tears from her throat. She pushes away from him, scooting farther back on the log, leaving his arms cold and falling limp at his sides. “ _I_ don’t want that! You’ve been hurt enough because of me.”

“Don’t give me that bull,” he says, desperate to make her understand this. “I bet you anything if it had been the other way around, I’d have seen tons of timelines where you sacrifice yourself for me even though _I_ wouldn’t want that either.” 

She hugs herself again, screwing her face up with sad determination. “That’s—“ 

“Don’t tell me it’s different, because it’s not!” he snaps, then regrets it. The last thing he wants is to fight with her again, but he can’t just sit here and listen to her devalue herself. 

“It _is_ ,” she insists. “ _You_ didn’t have to see it!”

“Like hell I didn’t!” He can hear the tears in his own voice but he doesn’t care, has no will or energy to hold them back. “I held a blaster to your head so you could sacrifice yourself! I pulled the trigger! That was the hardest goddamn thing I ever did but I did it because it was _your_ choice!” 

“Yes,” says Gamora, a cold, hard edge in her voice now. It reminds him of the first day they’d met, when she’d been threatening to stab him and apparently completely prepared to do it. “You had to see it one whole time. Multiply that by thousands!”

“I would respect your choice every time,” Peter growls, crossing his own arms. He hates fighting with _her_ , but he’ll square off with the damn demons in her head any day. 

“Clearly not,” she says bitterly. “Because my _choice_ would _never_ be to have you sacrifice yourself!”

Peter opens his mouth, closes it again, most of the retorts he’s been planning dying on his lips. He knows better than to try and refute that point; she’s right and he knows it and he isn’t sorry for the fact that he’s apparently defied her wishes in thousands of alternate timelines. “So, what? You’d rather I just--live with the fact that you _died_ for me? That you’re gone? Newsflash, Gamora: Dying would be _infinitely_ better.”

“You dying could never be better!” Her voice shakes. Their only light source now is the fire, but even with just that he can see the tears that she’s refusing to let fall sparkling in her eyes. “And _you_ would rather _I_ live like that? With the same knowledge after you sacrifice yourself for me?”

“I--no,” he admits, swallowing. He wouldn’t wish that on anyone, least of all her; he knows firsthand how painful being the survivor is, those few days the worst in his life. 

“Then what _do_ you want?” she pushes. 

He throws his hands up, brings them back down, grips his hair hard enough to hurt. “I don’t know! _I don’t know_! But I don’t want you to die! I can’t lose you, Mora, I can’t. I can’t do that again!”

Her hand flies out to grip his wrist, pulling it away from his hair. Her grip is tight but her fingers are still trembling so violently against him that he’s surprised she can manage to hold on at all. “I can’t lose you either, Peter! I had to watch thousands of scenarios where I did and one of them might be what is actually going to happen to you!” 

“It’s not--” He breaks off, knows anything he says will pale in comparison to her experience with the Stone, to actually _seeing_ all of those scenarios. He pulls his arm out of her grasp, realizes belatedly that his sandwich has fallen to the ground. Suddenly unable to contain the rage bubbling up in the pit of his stomach, he stomps down on the sandwich hard, before kicking it into the fire. The bread ignites immediately, the meat sizzling.

The smell of it makes his stomach tighten, the lump in his throat actually painful. For a moment he thinks he’s going to finally be sick, but what comes out instead is an anguished sob, so loud that it echoes through the trees around them. He moves in a rush, closing the distance between them again and wrapping his arms around her, holding on like it’s the only thing keeping them both from flying to pieces. 

“Were they _all_ bad?” he asks finally, voice muffled against her hair. He wants to believe that there’s something besides tragedy in their future, that there are still more good times to come. Even if the Stone didn’t show it to her, he _has_ to believe it, for Gamora’s sake. After this, after everything, doesn’t she deserve that?

For a moment she stays stiff, and he’s afraid she’s going to pull away again. Eventually, though, she relaxes, letting herself be held and holding him too, despite the incredibly awkward angle. A loose piece of bark from the log is digging into his thigh and he couldn’t care less. 

“No,” she whispers. “Some of them were good. Happy. But the bad ones, they keep--they keep playing in my head. I can’t stop thinking about them.”

Her voice breaks and he finally feels it: moisture against his neck. It breaks his heart to know she’s crying but god, is he grateful that she’s not holding it in anymore. 

He holds her closer, tighter, stroking his hand over her hair and her back. “Tell me some of the good ones. Please.”

It takes her another beat before she speaks again. He doesn’t rush her, sensing that she’s going to talk if he just gives her time. 

“We grew old in a lot of them,” she says at last. It’s a good thing her mouth is so close to his ear, because she’s speaking so quietly it would be difficult to hear otherwise. “In one, I saw us sitting by a fire in a room I didn’t recognize. That one was only a flash, but I know we were holding hands. I think we had hot chocolate.” 

“That’s good,” says Peter, though his voice is still shaking, still equal parts choked and hoarse. It isn’t until he tastes salt that he realizes he’s crying again too, but he’s so focused on taking care of her that he doesn’t spare a second thought for it. “Hot chocolate is good, right?”

She nods but she’s still crying, her whole body shaking so violently that he can’t tell anymore whether it’s from shivers or sobs or some terrible combination. It’s anything but cold tonight, yet he feels absolutely chilled to the bone by these revelations. Gamora’s hair is braided, but he finds the tie and deftly undoes it, running his fingers through the strands to ground himself, and hopefully to soothe her. She makes a tiny sound in the back of her throat, fisting her hands in his shirt. 

Gamora is loud in her anger, in her bravery, and sometimes even in her humor. But she’s practically silent whenever she’s feeling vulnerable, cries so quietly it hardly seems possible. He understands why now more than ever, and it fucking breaks his heart.

“It’s good,” she whispers finally. “It’s good, but it--It still has an end, you know? Even in the good ones, I lose you.”

“I know,” he whispers back. “I don’t _ever_ want to lose you either, but...the only way to not lose something eventually is to never have it to begin with. And I want you, every second I can get with you, no matter how it ends.”

To his surprise, she stiffens again, though she doesn’t pull away this time. Instead, she starts crying harder. 

“Mora,” he says softly, concerned and confused. “Honey, what is it?” 

“You don’t know that,” she manages, barely comprehensible through the tears. But still, the words, the way she says them, stir something in his memory; a conversation they had a couple days ago. 

“Why do you keep saying that?” he asks, not for the first time afraid to hear the answer. “Of course I--”

“No, no, I saw--” She practically chokes on the words, then takes a deep, shaky breath. He can feel the effort it takes, the way her lungs stutter and hesitate. “In one of the timelines I saw, you--I never came back from the Stone.” 

He swallows hard past the lump in his throat, nausea already welling back up at just the idea of that -- and she hasn’t even finished speaking yet. 

“I saw you,” she continues. “Maybe a week later. You were--you were crying and kicking things around our room and you told Drax… You told him you wished you’d never met me.” 

Peter flinches at that, instantly wanting to kick _himself_. She’s right, he’s sure. He can _absolutely_ imagine himself reacting that way if she’d never come back, was practically on the verge of tearing apart the ship and ripping Drax’s head off in just the few hours it had taken to get to Titan, before he’d even learned that she was _really_ gone. But he also knows that it would never be true, would be only a momentary expression of pain too great to express in any other way. Of course Gamora _would_ believe it, though, and probably will now, no matter what he says. That voice of self-loathing is as deeply ingrained in her as breathing.

“I wouldn’t blame you,” she says quietly, making him realize that he hasn’t actually responded yet, except by mentally kicking himself. “I _don’t_ blame you.”

“Wait,” says Peter, clearing his throat, trying to speak as steadily as possible, though it might just be the hardest thing he’s ever done. “Gamora, it’s--” He breaks off, shakes himself, the instinct that comes to him in the worst of crises finally stirring. “After my mother died, do you know what I said to Yondu?”

She shakes her head against his shoulder, hasn’t pulled away despite everything. “What?”

“I said I wished I had always been an orphan.” His voice breaks again despite his best attempt; he’s never admitted this to anyone in his adult life. “That I’d never had a father, and I’d have been better off without a mother too. You think I meant that?”

This time she does pull her head away, but only enough so she can see his face, and he can see hers. The fire throws light and shadows across her face, moving as the fire crackles, but it’s plenty to see the tear tracks all over her cheeks, the red rims around her eyes, water still pooling in them and spilling over at the edges.

She’s so goddamn beautiful it physically pains him. 

“No,” she says softly, reaching up with one trembling hand to touch his cheek, catching his own tears with her thumb. He’s sure she’s aware how important this admission is to him, how significant it is that it’s taken him four years to share it with her. “I don’t think you meant that.” 

“I didn’t,” he says, feeling guilty even now for ever saying it in the first place. “No matter how painful it was to lose her, I wouldn’t trade the time I had with her for anything.” 

“I know,” she whispers, but that insecurity is still written all over her face. 

“Is that where the...vision thing...ended? Did you see any more?” 

“No,” she admits. “That was it.” 

“Well that’s not fair,” says Peter, frustration flaring. Somehow the damn Stones seem to have a way of making him look bad every time. Or maybe that’s just the price they extract from anyone foolish enough to wield them. Pain in exchange for power. “It left out the part where you would’ve gotten to see that I didn’t mean it! I would _never_ have meant it!”

“How would you know that?” she sighs, sounding exhausted more than anything else, though the tears are still spilling down her cheeks, her breathing still coming in rough gasps that aren’t quite sobs. “How _could_ you know?” It isn’t a challenge--actually, she sounds desperate to believe it.

“Because,” says Peter, “I know _me._ And I _know_ I love you. I love every goddamn second I get with you, and I _always_ will. I don’t give a shit what some evil Stone says. Besides, I’m always right. I thought we’d agreed on that.”

She makes a strangled sound that’s somewhere between a sob and a laugh, smiling faintly in the firelight. “I thought we said that was me.”

Peter reaches out to wipe the tears from her cheeks, stubbornly shoving down the memories that try to stir. “Nah. When it comes to loving you? I’m the expert.”

She sniffles once, then nods almost imperceptibly, finally settling back against him, head on his shoulder.

Peter wraps his arm around her again, rubbing her shoulder lightly. She doesn’t believe him, he knows. But that’s okay, because he’s going to convince her. He has time for that now. _They_ have time now.

Gamora nuzzles his neck and he closes his eyes, letting the sounds of nature and the warmth of her at his side gradually calm him down, hoping it’s having the same effect on her. 

Somewhere in the distance, there’s the hoot of an owl, followed by the beating of wings.


	20. Chapter 20

Peter wakes up first. He’s disoriented for a moment, the line between sleep and consciousness blurred by the fact that he can’t see a thing until his eyes finally adjust. Even then he can’t see much. The only light coming into the tent is the dim light from the lantern they’d left on outside. If it’s morning, it’s extremely early. 

Despite that, he feels more rested than he has in days, possibly weeks. Emotionally and physically drained, sure, but rested. Some of that might have to do with the fact that this sleeping bag/air mattress combo is surprisingly comfortable, but he’s pretty sure most of it is the woman curled up in his arms. 

He smiles, warmth flooding him as he takes her in. He can’t see her very well, but her breathing is rhythmic, her face is buried against his chest, and they’re still positioned the same way they were when they fell asleep: arms around each other, one of his legs thrown over hers, basically hugging with their whole bodies. 

He’s prepared to lay perfectly still all day if it means she can catch up on her sleep, but even as he thinks that she’s stirring, probably responding to one of those miniscule changes in his breathing or heartbeat she swears she can sense in sleep. 

“Good--morning, probably,” he murmurs against her hair. 

“Probably?” she asks, voice hoarse with sleep and muffled against his shirt. She’s definitely awake, but she makes no move to shift away or get up, instead curling even closer, running her hand along his side.

Peter opens his mouth to answer, but ends up yawning first. He decides to just go with it, turning the breath into a quiet kind of yodeling sound that makes Gamora shake with silent laughter. “I mean--yeah, I think? ‘s still dark though. But it kinda feels like morning, you know?”

She shakes her head, half nuzzling his chest. “No, I don’t know.”

“Oh,” says Peter, good humor surging through him at the way she’s touching him, the way she’s still relaxed in his arms, no sign of nightmares or other anxious thoughts for the moment. It’s not like he thinks everything is solved, but he’s practically giddy at even this much progress. “Well, that’s probably because you’re not from Earth. This planet and I are connected.”

He can practically hear her rolling her eyes. “Or you are making it up.”

“Whaaaat?” he says with mock-offense. “How dare you, honestly. I would never--”

She snorts, an adorable noise. “Peter.”

“Okay, so it’s just a guess,” he admits. “But it feels like we slept for a while. It’s gotta be morning.” She makes a noncommittal noise and he continues. “ _Did_ you sleep okay?” It occurs to him that he doesn’t actually know when she fell asleep; he’d meant to stay up and watch her for a change, but the hike combined with the heavy emotional toll of the night exhausted him. He fell asleep the second they crawled into the tent. 

“Yes,” she says simply, voice still soft and full of sleep and warming something inside him. This is the way he’s used to her voice sounding on lazy mornings, when they’ve got nothing to do and no reason to tear themselves away from the warm bed. 

“Good.” He runs his fingers through her hair, gently working through a couple small tangles. She makes a little contented noise and cards her fingers into his hair as well. He could _float_ he’s so happy. 

Which, to be fair, they kind of both are, since technically they’re sleeping on air. The tech, like everything else, is pretty primitive compared to what they’re accustomed to in space. Still, he’d been relieved to learn that an air bed--as the sales lady had called it--was an option at all. It’s definitely more comfortable than sleeping on the ground, which is incredibly important to him for Gamora’s sake.

“What about you?” asks Gamora. She shifts again, rolling onto her back and pulling him with her, the mattress tilting and then evening out again underneath them. 

He’s half on top of her now, arm still slung across her waist, head resting on her chest so that her breath brushes lightly against his temple. She runs her fingers through his hair again, then starts massaging the muscles at the back of his neck very gently. He exhales as some of the tension drains away, and practically melts into a puddle of bliss.

“Peter?” she prompts, and it’s only then that he realizes he still hasn’t responded to her question, hasn’t even fully registered what she’s asked.

“Huh?” He doesn’t lift his head, is far too busy feeling boneless.

“Did you sleep all right?” she repeats. “Any nightmares after--last night?”

“No, actually,” he says, surprised now that he thinks about it. “No nightmares. I had a good dream.” He cringes after he says it, feeling kind of bad about that considering what he learned last night, the horrible images and scenarios constantly running through Gamora’s head. 

He can hear a small smile in her voice. “That’s a good thing, Peter. What was it about?”

“Us growing old together,” he says tentatively, afraid to bring it up when he knows it upsets her. She keeps massaging his head, though, so he continues. “I was brushing your hair. It was still pink on the bottom, but grey on top. Beautiful, of course.” 

Her breath tickles his hair when she exhales on a laugh. “I don’t believe my peoples’ hair turns grey.” 

“I better revise that part of the dream then.” He strokes his hand along her side, trying to soothe where she’s tensed a bit at the mention of that scenario. “What about you? Nightmares?” 

“Same as usual,” she says, tone flat and resigned, crushing his hope that their minds had both been kind last night. “I was in the Stone again.”

“Oh, babe,” he sighs, heart aching for her again. He’s glad she’s finally shared some of the things that have been tormenting her, but can’t help wondering if he’s contributed to her dreams by making her focus on it. He wishes suddenly that he wasn’t lying on top of her, because he wants to be the one holding her, comforting her. Instead he has to content himself with craning his neck up to kiss the underside of her jaw.

She shivers at that, then shakes her head. “I have had nightmares practically every night of my life, Peter. It’s nothing new.”

He sighs. He knows that’s true, comparatively speaking. But he also knows she’d stopped having them most nights, had been awakening happy and relaxed most mornings lately. Until Thanos showed up and dropped a literal fucking moon on all that progress. “Do you wanna talk about it?”

“Not particularly,” says Gamora, but then she relents, her fingers toying with his shirt as she speaks. “We were both in the Stone, together. You were angry, like in--like when I saw you with Drax.”

“Oh,” he says sadly, wishing he could go punch the version of himself in that alternate timeline that’s upsetting her so much. “Why was I angry?”

Her voice is barely a whisper when she says, “Because you were trapped with me. You used the Stone to try to get me out but...it didn’t work. And we were both trapped there. Forever. You said--” 

She stops herself, but he knows where she was going and his heart shatters even more for her. “I said what I said in that alternate future you saw, didn’t I?”

She doesn’t respond for a moment; her fingers even pause in his hair and against his shirt. Then she nods, once. 

“Gamora,” he breathes, wrapping his arms around her as tight as he can. “How could you think I would _ever_ blame you if that happened? Or be angry at you at all? I’d rather be trapped there with you than be anywhere without you.”

“I know,” she says in a small voice. “It was just a dream.”

“It was just a dream,” he echoes firmly, because he can tell she doesn’t quite believe it. He knows firsthand how pervasive dreams like this can be. He’s had them a lot over the years, especially the past week or so; dreams where Gamora yells at him, blames him for failing her, treats him in a way he _knows_ the real Gamora never would. That kind of insecurity is hard to shut down. 

“I'm sorry,” she whispers, regardless of his reassurance. She's shaking again too despite his arms around her, despite nearly his full weight on top of her. 

Peter rolls them over again, easily and decisively, so that he can hold her curled against his chest. The benefit of this position is that it also gives her the ability to pull away if she wants, to escape without having to shove or otherwise move him. She makes no move to do any of those things, though, instead grasping handfuls of his shirt again, like that might somehow be able to anchor her to this reality and not the Stone's. 

“What are you sorry for?” he asks finally, kissing her forehead and lingering, like he might somehow be able to take the chill out of her blood if he can just figure out the right way to touch her. 

“For--" She breaks off, groping for words, a few soft, pained sounds managing to escape her throat. “For this. All of this. If I didn't get you stuck in the Stone, then I certainly entrapped you in the rest of this whole--nightmare. You would never have had to face Thanos if not for me. You have every right to be angry.”

“But I'm _not_ ,” he says vehemently. “Gamora. I'm not even a little bit angry at _you._ At Thanos for sure. And Thor, maybe. Also kinda at dream-me for being a dick to you. But never, ever _at you._ ” He runs his fingers through her hair again, desperate to provide her some measure of comfort, somehow. Instinctively he finds himself separating three sections, braid started before he's even consciously realized what he's doing. 

“You should be,” she says on the kind of gasping breath that means she’s trying not to cry. “It was selfish of me to get you involved with Thanos, foolish to think I could really escape him--”

“Gamora,” he cuts in, tightening his arms around her a little awkwardly, since he’s mid-braid and still holding her hair. “Please, sweetheart, stop talking about yourself like that. You are the most amazing person in the entire universe. And look--it’s not like you didn’t warn me about Thanos a thousand times. Do you remember that talk we had, like a week after Yondu’s funeral?”

He feels more than hears her sigh, but before she can even answer, he continues. “You told me that when people found out we were together, your enemies would become mine. You asked if I was sure I wanted to risk that. And I said yes. And I meant it.”

“You hadn’t met Thanos yet--”

“And now I have,” he says firmly. “I was sure then, I was sure the thousand other times we had that conversation, and I’m sure now, after I’ve met him, and faced him, and helped kill him. I will always be sure. I’d face Thanos and any one of your enemies a thousand million more times. You are worth facing anything, Mora.” 

“Why?” she asks, her voice breaking as she starts to cry again in earnest. Apparently last night _did_ break down some of the walls, or at least put significant cracks in them. She takes another shaky breath, but he can already feel the tears wetting his shirt.

“Why what?” he asks, combing his fingers through the braid he’s just done, releasing her hair. He rubs her back with his other hand, still needing to be touching her in any way possible. He thinks he knows what her answer is going to be, though he’s hoping he’s wrong.

She shakes her head, unwilling or unable to answer for a long moment. When she finally does speak, he can barely make out the words. He doesn’t need to, though. Her tone is enough to confirm it for him. “Why am I worth that to you?”

“Gamora,” he breathes, then chokes on the lump in his throat. She gets like this sometimes, he knows, the voices of her past overpowering the truths of her present life. Sometimes she needs to be reminded of the love that surrounds her, of the fact that she’s more than earned it. He finds himself struggling to come up with adequate reassurance now, though. Not because he thinks she deserves it any less--if anything, she does _more_ now--but because he can’t stop thinking about the ways that _all of them_ have failed her.

After another long pause, he manages to gather himself enough to continue. “Because you still love me, and support me, and take care of me even when _I_ don’t deserve it. When I can’t do my job, can’t keep you safe.” 

He feels her shift, knows she’s about to protest, but he continues quickly before she can interrupt. “Because you still love the team. You forgave them for giving up on you when you were trapped in the Stone. Actually, it probably didn’t even occur to you to be mad at them in the first place. You don’t have to stick by us, Mora. By me. But you do. You are the best, most loyal girlfriend, partner, friend--everything I could ever ask for. If either of us is unworthy of the other, it’s me.”

She shifts for real this time, leaning on one arm to meet his eyes. Her hair falls out of his hand. Even in the dim light, he can see how wet her cheeks are, the red rims around her eyes. 

“ _Peter_.” Her lower lip wobbles; she bites it to steady it. “ _You_ are the one who sticks by _me_ when you don’t have to. You and the team are the best thing that has ever happened to me. My life was so empty before you. You showed me what love truly is.”

“So was mine,” says Peter, his own eyes filled with tears now. He swallows and blinks, but doesn’t even try to keep them from spilling over, letting them fall and allowing her to see. It’s definitely starting to get lighter outside now, though it’s still the vague blue of pre-dawn. He reaches up with a shaking hand to touch her cheek, noticing how his skin blends with hers in the shadows, silver on silver, though he knows it’s an illusion. 

“Peter--” she starts, and he rests a single finger against her lips, a plea to let him continue, though he’ll never force her if that’s not her choice. She nods almost imperceptibly, meeting his eyes.

“I mean it,” he insists, forcing the words out past the ball of emotions stuck in his throat. “I mean--It wasn’t the same, exactly, but it _was_ empty, and I didn’t even know it. I used to think about love like--like _big romance_ , you know? The stuff I remembered from movies, like kissing on horseback and riding off into the sunset. You give me that and _so much_ more. Like--like patching me up when I get hurt. And talking to me when I have nightmares. And also not murdering me for my dirty socks.”

“If I was going to murder you, it would be for your underwear,” says Gamora, but then turns serious again. “I--have to tell you something.”

“Anything,” he promises, though he can’t help the way his heartbeat picks up again. Is it really possible that there’s _still_ something worse she’s holding onto?

“There were moments in the Stone,” she says hesitantly, pausing like it takes effort to select her words, “when _I_ wished that I had never met you or the others. When I wished that I had simply stayed with Thanos, miserable, and never learned of anything better, because it would have been less--” She breaks off, voice catching.

“Less painful,” Peter finishes. 

She nods, avoiding his eyes. 

“Did you mean it?” he asks, though it’s not really a question. He knows the answer as surely as he knew what she was feeling at those moments, and what she was just trying to say. “Did you really wish you’d never met us?”

“No,” she whispers. He can see her throat working again, says nothing while he waits for her to gather the words, and the strength to speak them. “You’ve given me the best four years of my life. I would always rather have them than not.”

“I feel the same way,” he says, quiet but vehement. He tucks some hair behind her ear. Some of it even stays. “And the me in that other possible future you saw feels… _would have felt_...the same way too. He-- _I_ \--was just in pain.”

She nods once again, slowly, and he thinks she might actually be on the verge of believing him. Which is the best he’s gonna get right now. 

“I love you,” he tells her.

She meets his eyes and offers him a wobbly smile before settling back against him. “I love you too. Even though you throw your underwear everywhere.”

“That seems like a slight exaggeration,” he mutters, resuming the hair-braiding immediately. 

He’s only been at it again for a couple minutes when his stomach interrupts their tranquility by rumbling loudly. 

He flushes, knowing that if he's heard, it probably sounds like thunder to her ears. Stomach thunder, or something. Actually, that sounds like a half decent band name, now that he thinks about it. Still embarrassing, though. 

“Peter,” says Gamora, when he tries to ignore it and keep braiding. He'd known that she would comment. 

“Hmm?” he asks, feigning ignorance. It's not that he's ashamed of being hungry in front of her--if anything her appetite and love of food far surpass his. But he does feel bad that his needs have managed to interrupt his taking care of her again. 

“Your stomach,” says Gamora, running her hand over it in a way that makes him mess up his current braiding sequence. He can practically hear her rolling her eyes. “It occurs to me that we didn't actually eat the sandwiches last night.”

“True,” he allows. Then he gets a brilliant idea. Maybe he can eat _and_ take care of her feelings. “Hey, but we didn't eat the s’mores either. What do you think about chocolate for breakfast?”

Her hand pauses on his stomach. “I would not be opposed to the idea,” she says, in a way that means she really, really wants to. “But that would require getting up.” 

“It would,” he admits. “I don’t wanna move either, but s’mores are gonna be worth it babe. Trust me, they’re amazing. They’re basically like an orgasm in your mouth.” 

She’s quiet for a second, perhaps processing the comparison, though he’s pretty sure it’s one he’s used in front of her before. 

Eventually, she says, “Your orgasms do not taste like chocolate to me,” and he chokes on air. 

“Oh my god—“ he gasps, laughing so hard tears spring to his eyes. “It’s a m-metaphor, babe.” 

“Oh, is it?” she asks, voice and smile dripping with fake innocence. 

“You know it is.” He wipes tears from his eyes, still laughing. “C’mon, tease, let’s get you some s’mores.” 

“All right,” she agrees, and rolls gracefully to her feet in one fluid movement, unzipping the tent and poking her head out, which lets a cool, earth-scented breeze in. 

Peter shivers a bit and tries to follow her, but finds himself engulfed in the air mattress, which has partially deflated under them. The sudden absence of her weight has made him sink down in the middle, and it takes him a couple of tries before he manages to roll upright--and promptly tumbles onto his ass beside it.

Gamora is already outside the tent, stretching her arms, but she turns around quickly at his surprised exhalation of breath. “Peter? Are you all right? What happened?”

“I’m fine,” he grumbles, managing to get to his knees without reacting to the ache that sends through them, and then crawling unceremoniously out of the tent. “I’m fine, I just--the mattress is an asshole.”

“Oh, is it now?” She offers him a hand, a tiny smile tugging at her lips.

“It is,” he says, trying to keep up his pout as he lets her help him up. “It threw me off without warning.” 

“That’s terrible,” she says with mock sympathy, bending down to put on her boots. He does the same. “Do you want me to stab it for you?” 

“Kinda.” He grins. “But then I’m pretty sure the rental people would make us buy it.” 

She shrugs a shoulder, turning towards the fire, which is nothing but embers now. “We will just have to explain that it hurt you and I had to protect your honor.” 

He’s about to tell her that he’s not sure that’s covered under the insurance when he notices her tense abruptly, staring off at the trees. 

“What?” he says, immediately rushing to her side, alert for a giant bear or something before he realizes that she probably wouldn’t be scared of that. Instead, when he follows her gaze, he just sees the orange and yellow hues of the sun rising over the hills. “Oh. Hey, uh, wanna go back in the tent for a little while? Beat up the air mattress?”

“No,” she says quietly but firmly. “I want to watch the sunrise.”

He bites his lip, feeling like he needs to protect her from the sun somehow. “Mora, are you sure?” 

“I’m sure,” she says with a tiny smile. “You always told me Earth sunrises were the best in the galaxy. I want to see for myself.” 

“Well--" He swallows, momentarily regretting the fact that he's told her that, both because he's worried that it will give her flashbacks and because he doesn't want it to let her down. Just a few days ago he would have been completely confident, but now he can't help thinking of all the disappointments they've already had on this trip. 

“I _want_ to see,” she says fiercely, taking him by the arm and tugging him toward the stream. “There should be a good spot this way, I saw it last night.”

“Okay,” he agrees, following her like he would to the end of the Earth. Anything she wants right now, he's gonna do. 

“Here,” says Gamora, when they've reached a spot on the bank where the treeline recedes and the view has a gap between the hills. She sits down without hesitation, pulling him with her. 

“I--" he starts again, instinctively wanting to protect her. He can't do that by preventing this, though. She can't spend the rest of her life avoiding anything orange, and she'd miss out on so much if she even tried. Steeling himself, he wraps an arm around her shoulders, fingers playing idly along the skin of her upper arm. “You're right. This _is_ a good spot.”

She nods, her eyes on the sky. The sun is just beginning to climb over the hills, turning the clouds a combination of pink and gold. There's a few soft rays of light breaking through the shadows around them, and he watches as Gamora puts out a hand to catch one of them, her mouth falling open slightly. 

“You okay?” he asks, tightening his arm around her slightly. 

“It's _warm_ ,” she breathes, her tone full of joy. 

“It is,” he agrees, watching the light dance over her skin, her face. It must have been a torture in itself to have these warm colors in the Soul Stone but to still be so cold; as cold as being out in empty space, she’d said. 

To have been through that, but still be able to watch this sunrise with that look on her face… She never ceases to amaze him. 

“What do you think?” he asks, when the sun is a little higher over the horizon. It’s not like this is the first sunrise she’s ever seen, or the first they’ve watched together, but it’s pretty rare considering how early Gamora wakes up most days. Spending most of their time on a ship means any sunrise they might see is gonna be from out in space, far away from the sun or any planet. 

Still though, they’ve watched all sorts, on a lot of different planets. But he’s never seen her express quite this much wonder over one. 

“I know it doesn’t have all the colors of Alpha Centauri or Krylor,” he continues, when she doesn’t respond for a second, eyes still fixed on the sky. “And it’s only one sun, but—“ 

“You were right,” she whispers, leaning her head against his shoulder. “It’s the best in the galaxy.” 

“Really?” he asks, needing the reassurance. He shifts to lean against the hill behind him, pulling her even closer and running his fingers through her hair, since he never did actually finish braiding it. 

She nods, turning to press a kiss to the side of his neck before looking back at the sky. “It's yours.”

And just like that, he's crying again, the simple sincerity in her voice like the first breath after drowning. He's struck again by the way things feel new and fragile on the surface between them, not exactly as though the past four years have been erased, but...like they're entering a new phase of their lives together, or something. Which _is_ true, if he thinks about it, and not just because of what she's been through in the Stone. Until now, Thanos has been a constant lurking shadow. He wonders if Gamora had any idea how to live without that fear, how to accept this new freedom. 

“You know,” he says after another moment of silence, “Earth streams are pretty nice too. Want to go in the water later?”

Her eyes light up at that, reflecting the sunrise. “Oh, _yes._ ”

Peter shifts her weight further into his lap, kissing the nape of her neck and then running a hand along her side. Instinctively, his fingers find the hem of her shirt, slipping under it to touch the place where her silver normally is. 

“Peter,” she breathes, but doesn't stop him. 

“Shhh,” he soothes, and flattens his palm over her abdomen, caressing it though he can tell by the relative lack of heat that the blush is still absent. 

“I’m sorry—“

“Don’t be,” he says gently, stroking his thumb up and down over her skin. “If you say you love me, I believe you.” Or he will try to, anyway. This may just be something that is different about her now, but there are no circumstances that keep him from loving her, much less something this comparatively small. 

“I do.” She glances up at him, tears in her eyes, easily visible now in the early morning light. “So much, Peter.” 

He kisses the top of her head, holds her to him tighter. “I love you too.” 

“Thank you,” she whispers, glancing back towards the sky, the bright oranges and yellows fading. “For that. And for sharing your home with me.” 

“ _You_ are my home, Mora,” he reminds her. “And I would do anything for you.” 

He feels her relax against him, is ready to settle in here to hold her like this all morning. But then the bear in his stomach decides to let out another displeased growl. 

She laughs, loud and open, and turns in his arms to rub his abdomen over his clothes. “Would you get me some of those s’mores then?” 

“Would I?” he echoes dramatically, feeling practically giddy at the sound of her laugh. “ _Would_ I? Your wish is my command.” He slips a hand under her knees and scoops her up, managing for once to actually stand smoothly. 

“Peter!” she laughs, clearly surprised, but pleasantly. She wraps an arm around his neck, shifting her weight so that they’re both more solidly balanced. 

“What?” he asks innocently, activating his rocket boots. “I’m getting you s’mores, ASAP!” He flies her back through the trees, so that it takes less than a minute to get back to their campsite.

He sets Gamora down carefully and goes about getting out their supplies, quickly reigniting the fire. She’s settled on one of the logs by the time he digs out the box of graham crackers, opens it, and hands her two. Next is the disproportionately large package of chocolate, and he breaks off four small sections, giving her those to hold as well. 

Finally he gets out the bag of marshmallows, which are new to her. She’d given them a confused look in the store, but he just _knows_ she’s going to love them once she experiences the flavor, particularly toasted. He takes two of those out, and turns to present them proudly.

“And these are--” He blinks, seeing only the graham crackers in her hands now. “Wait. Where’d your chocolate go?”

Gamora shrugs, licking the corner of her lip delicately. “I don’t recall having any.”

He gapes at her, then grins with delight. “Babe, oh my god. Are you serious? I can’t leave you alone with chocolate for ten seconds.” 

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” she says, all practiced innocence. 

“Sure, okay,” he says, deciding to play along. He breaks off some more sections for her. “Here is some chocolate, which I’m handing you for the first time.” 

She accepts it, clearly trying to look serious.

“Let me just grab another marshmallow,” he says casually, making a point of bending his head to dig through the bag, as if hunting for a certain marshmallow. 

“Aha!” he exclaims when he snaps his head back up a couple seconds later and catches her with her mouth full, cheeks puffed out slightly as she chews. “Caught red-handed!” 

She smiles around her mouthful and holds her hands up; there’s a bit of melted chocolate on a couple of her fingers and her palm. “What are you talking about?” she asks after a large swallow. 

He shakes his head fondly, this time holding onto the chocolate himself. As adorable as it is to watch her sneak the chocolate, they only have two bars and he really wants her to try s’mores. “I’m talking about your raging sweet tooth.” 

Gamora makes a show of running her tongue across her teeth, which makes his mouth go very dry. 

She shrugs again, innocence now mixed with feigned confusion. “They do not taste sweet to me. Nor do they appear to be raging.”

He snorts. “Okay, Drax.” When he looks up at her again, she's posing with her biceps flexed, pantomiming holding one of Drax's knives in each hand. 

Peter shakes his head, carefully selecting a couple of long sticks from the ground and passing them over the flames of the fire to sterilize them. Then he sticks a marshmallow onto the end of each, presenting one to her. 

“Okay, so this is the most important part of s’mores,” he says very seriously. 

“Are we using them as weapons?” she asks, brandishing hers like her sword. 

He presses his lips together, trying to keep a serious face despite how adorable, and also kinda hot, he finds that. “Not quite, though I know you could. We’re using them as totally high-class cooking tools.” 

“Extremely fancy,” she says dryly, though she’s smiling. 

“There’s a trick to this,” he says, as if he’s about to explain something complicated. “So watch super close. You gotta hold the marshmallow over the fire at just the right height so it toasts but doesn’t burn.” 

She follows his direction easily. “This is a very complicated procedure.”

“It’ll be worth it in the end,” he says sagely, watching his marshmallow in kind of a trance. “You gotta turn it, too, so it toasts on all sides.”

“Where did you learn this technique?” 

“My mom,” he answers, which he’s sure doesn’t surprise her. She just smiles at him encouragingly, prompting him to continue. “When we used to go camping in our backyard, or my grandpa’s, we’d always toast marshmallows. I’d hold the marshmallows too close all the time because I thought it was funny when they caught fire. My mom always had to bring backup marshmallows because she knew I’d ruin a couple.” 

She smiles fondly, but her expression quickly turns to one of curiosity, though she’s still turning her marshmallow in sequence with him. “You have mentioned camping in the backyard a few times now, but you haven’t explained the circumstances. Did something happen to your homes?”

“Oh!” says Peter, mentally smacking himself in the forehead. Of course that wouldn’t be clear to her. “No, no, it was just for fun. Like this, but with a smaller tent and in one of our backyards, so we could just go and get stuff from inside the house if we needed it. Or, you know, if one of us got bored and decided we’d rather go in and watch movies and sleep in a real bed.” 

Come to think of it, that’s probably why they never went farther from home. That and his mother probably couldn’t afford it, and maybe didn’t want to be a young woman alone in the woods with a little kid. Fortunately he doesn’t have time to get sad about those realizations, because the marshmallows are done being toasted.

“Okay,” he instructs, pulling his out of the fire and watching her do the same. “Now you take off the marshmallow and put it on a graham cracker. And _then_ \--and this part is really important--you add some chocolate on top of the marshmallow. Got that? You put it in the sandwich, you don’t eat it by itself.”

She gives him an unamused look, which is actually pretty amused. “I’m not sure I understand. Please enlighten me further.”

He snorts. “Here, watch me.” Carefully and with surgical precision, he slides his marshmallow off the stick and onto a graham cracker, then places two of the chocolate sections on top of it, where they immediately start to melt. “And now, to top it off--” Another graham cracker smushes down the chocolate and the marshmallow, bits of them running over the edges and creating a delicious, sticky mess. 

Gamora’s eyes light up, apparently intrigued by the sight. She follows his instructions, creating a picture-perfect s’more. 

“Now you eat it!” he says, though he hasn’t followed that instruction himself yet. 

She rolls her eyes. “Yes, I managed to deduce that part.” Then she takes a large bite and lets out a delighted moan, closing her eyes and tilting her head back in a way that makes his jaw slacken as he watches her. 

“Good, huh?” he asks weakly, practically drooling.

“They are _delicious_ ,” says Gamora, licking her lips, then switching the s’more to her other hand so she can clean her fingers with her tongue, not that it’s very effective since the chocolate is continuing to melt.

“Yeah, they are,” he says absently, his attention still glued to her mouth. It doesn’t matter how many times he watches her enjoy something, doesn’t matter how regularly he manages to make her happy like this--it’s always, always a victory. Even more so now, knowing that it’s been an eternity from her perspective, and that she’s been denying herself since being back. 

Finishing another bite, she straightens, looking at him in a way that makes him flush, though it isn’t like she’s unaware of his habit of staring at her. “Is there something wrong with yours?”

“What?” He glances down at his own s’more and realizes that it’s cooling, still whole. “Oh! I don’t think--” He takes a huge bite, half the s’more at once, and is instantly punched in the gut with nostalgia. He’s forgotten how good Earth chocolate tastes, and the way that marshmallows literally melt in your mouth. Suddenly he’s seven years old again, sitting by the fire and snuggling into his mother’s side, listening to his grandpa tell ghost stories. When he speaks again, his mouth is still full. “‘S great.”

She smiles warmly, probably aware to some degree where his mind has gone, and rests a hand on his shoulder. “You were right about this, too, by the way. Earth has the best chocolate.”

“Doesn’t it?” He grins. “Why is the rest of the galaxy so bad at food?”

“I don’t know,” she says, laughing and holding her hand out. “Hand me another marshmallow, maybe we can figure it out.” 

He gives her the whole bag, minus one that he keeps for himself. “I hope I can trust you with these. Remember, they go in the s’more, not eaten separately.”

She rolls her eyes and stabs a marshmallow with her stick. 

S’mores make for an excellent breakfast, it turns out. This is hardly the first time the two of them have had dessert for breakfast -- her sweet tooth really is impressive -- but this might be his favorite; he’s got chocolate and a campfire and his girl, who’s smiling and enjoying food again. 

He’s so distracted by making s’mores, and watching Gamora eat the s’mores, that he doesn’t notice the way the light is slowly fading, the clouds that creep quickly across the sky. 

That is, until he hears a rumble that is definitely not his stomach. Gamora glances at him, and actually jumps when a loud _crack_ of thunder reaches their ears; apparently she’d been distracted too. 

“Ah, fuck,” Peter mumbles, looking up. A raindrop hits his face, then his arm. “Grab the food!” 

Gamora looks down at the half-eaten s’more in her hand, then pops the remainder of it into her mouth, cheeks bulging as she eats it in a single bite. He can’t help getting sidetracked by that despite the weather, watching her until the sky absolutely opens up, huge drops of rain splattering against the trees before breaking through the canopy to drench them. 

“Fuck,” he breathes again, abandoning his stick and grabbing the box of graham crackers and the bag of marshmallows.

Gamora, predictably, scoops up the remainder of the chocolate. If it came down to a situation where she had to choose between saving it and saving him, he’s not _entirely_ sure which she’d pick.

She scrambles into the tent just ahead of him, ever more graceful. Peter practically faceplants into the air mattress, but he manages to set down the food neatly enough, just off the edge. He’s about to start kicking himself for the fact that he’s lost track of the weather, for the fact that they won’t be able to go swimming after all. But then he glances over at Gamora and realizes she’s shaking with laughter.

He just stares at her for a second, processing the fact that apparently he hasn’t ruined their good morning. Then he smiles, slowly, and laughs along with her. 

“Hey, babe,” he says, then shakes his head like a dog when she looks at him, causing her to let out an actual _squeal_ as water flies off his hair and onto her. “I think it might rain.” 

“Peter!” she says in an outraged tone that she can’t pull off while she’s still laughing. She whips her hair around, the ends of it brushing over his face, followed by a trail of water. “Oh, look, I guess it _is_ raining.” 

“No fair, your hair is longer!” 

She shrugs one shoulder. “I am not the one who started it.” 

“No?” he asks, scrunching his face up and leaning close to her as if very suspicious. “Are you sure you didn’t cause the rain so you’d have an excuse to eat all the chocolate by itself?”

“Even if I had such a power, I would never,” she says loftily, then eats a piece of chocolate. 

“Sure.” He watches her mouth again, more affection than anything, but still. “You know, kissing in the rain is supposed to be real romantic.” 

“Oh, is it?” she asks, licking her lips again. She grabs a marshmallow next, popping it into her mouth but not chewing, apparently letting it melt. 

“Definitely,” says Peter, with an air of authority. He reaches out and snatches a marshmallow from the bag, grinning victoriously, though he knows she would have just given it to him if he’d asked. Chocolate, on the other hand… “I saw it a lot of times in movies. Like...um....” He searches, comes up blank, then shrugs. “I don’t remember the names. But it’s definitely a thing.”

“It sounds wet,” says Gamora, swallowing the last of the marshmallow and eating another one.

Peter waggles his eyebrows at her. “You know I love it when you talk dirty, babe.”

“Wet with _water_.” She rolls her eyes, though she probably anticipated that response. She was the one joking about orgasms earlier, to be fair. She swallows again and clears her throat. “You never told me whether you want to visit your grandfather, you know. I let you change the subject, but I haven’t forgotten, Peter.”

“I was totally on subject,” he says evasively, attempting to stay calm. She’ll be able to hear if his heartbeat changes, but this idea, that he’d managed to forget about for a few hours, makes him instinctively nervous. 

She sighs. “The point is, do you want to go visit your grandfather?” 

His thoughts on this haven’t really changed since she last brought it up; he’s well aware that he _should_ , that if his grandpa is still alive, he owes him a visit. And he doesn’t _not_ want to, really. It just...scares him. But he can’t let that get in the way, especially not since this seems to be important to Gamora. 

“Yeah, sure,” he says as casually as possible. “Let’s do that.”

She eyes him for a moment, probably deciding whether or not to buy this act. He doubts she does, but thankfully she lets it go. “Do you remember how to locate his house?”

He shrugs. “I remember the street name. It’ll be easy to find his house from there, there were only like three on that street.” 

“Okay, then,” she says decisively. “We have our next destination.” 

“Yep,” says Peter, feigning satisfaction at that. “Got a destination, and my girl, and some chocolate. What more could I need?”

“Oh,” says Gamora, in her own mock-casual tone. “Did you want some of this?” She eats another piece of chocolate, only a few sections left. 

He laughs and shakes his head. She’d give him everything that’s left, he knows, if he really wanted it. But he’s far happier to watch her enjoy it. Instead, he amends, “I’ve got a destination and my girl. What more could I need?”

“Well,” says Gamora, putting down the food, “it is raining. Does that mean you should kiss me?”

“Oh,” says Peter. “Good point.”

He leans in and does just that, tasting the chocolate on her lips and thinking that this is absolutely, most definitely, one of the most romantic kisses in the history of kissing.


	21. Chapter 21

“You are getting my upholstery wet.”

“Hello to you too, buddy,” Peter says, rubbing his back against the seat to spread the water around even more.

“Hello, Mr. Star-Lord,” Knight Rider says warily. “Ms. Gamora. You are getting my upholstery wet.”

“Is it going to damage it?” Gamora asks, perched on the edge of her seat.

Peter waves a hand dismissively before the car can respond. “No, he’s just being a baby. Get over it, Knight Rider, it’s raining. We can’t help it.”

To be fair, they wouldn’t be quite this wet if Peter hadn’t insisted on stopping right outside the car to kiss Gamora in the rain again. But to be double fair, Gamora is the one who insisted that they couldn’t sit in the hotel and wait out the rain any longer, as it had been going for a day and a half already. They’d even had to hike back down the hill in it yesterday.

Plus, he hadn’t technically gotten to kiss Gamora _in_ the rain back at the campsite and he couldn’t pass up this opportunity. It was awesome and he has no regrets.

Until he notices her shivering.

“How ‘bout you warm us up, Knight Rider?” Peter says, tapping on the air vents on the dashboard.

“Certainly, Mr. Star-Lord.”

He feels warm air come out of the vents right away, and after a few seconds he feels his back and butt getting warmer, too. “Hey, nice, heated seats.”

He glances over at Gamora and finds her still shivering, which is concerning since it isn’t cold outside and they haven’t even gotten _that_ wet. He wonders whether it was a poor choice to keep her in the rain longer than necessary, but then tries to dismiss the thought. Gamora is perfectly capable of telling him when she doesn’t want to do something, and she was enthusiastic enough about kissing him.

“I am fine,” she says quietly, as though reading his mind. Which, she probably _can_ tell what he’s thinking from his expression and from the way his heart rate’s increased. She shrugs out of her coat, laying it on the seat beside her and holding out both hands in front of the vents.

“I know,” he agrees easily, leaning over to rub her shoulders anyway.

She looks up at him for a moment, then settles into his touch, eyes half-closed. Peter leans in and kisses her forehead, relieved to find her skin warm despite the slight sheen of raindrops drying there. He lingers with his lips against her temple, feeling her pulse, strong and regular.

Knight Rider makes his throat-clearing sound a moment later. “Um. Mr. Star-Lord?”

Peter sighs. “What?”

“Shall I take you and Ms. Gamora somewhere? And if not, may I suggest that you go back to your hotel room?”

“Damn, you’re a prude, Knight Rider,” he says with no real heat, since he’s made Gamora laugh. “We’re barely touching.”

“I am merely informing you that this is not the most private location--”

“Last I checked kissing my girl’s forehead isn’t a lewd act.”

“I never said--”

“We’re going to St. Charles,” Gamora interrupts, cutting in before this can go on forever, because Knight Rider is a stubborn prude, obviously.

“Where in St. Charles?” Knight Rider asks, back to acting all professional and proper.

Gamora looks at him expectantly and he sighs again. “Stonebrook Street. I don’t remember the number but I’ll know it when I see it.”

“More specific than your usual directions,” Knight Rider says dryly.

“You’re welcome,” Peter says and doesn’t elaborate. He’s a little busy trying to keep himself calm as they leave the parking lot of the hotel and get back on the road. It’s not like he thought he could delay this moment forever, but he’d been hoping for longer than a day and a half.

He pulls away from Gamora and sits back in his seat, not wanting her to feel his suddenly sweaty palms or the tension in his body.

“Turn up the tunes, Knight Rider,” he says, resting his hands behind his head and his feet on the dash to try to cover his movement.

Knight Rider pulls off to the side of the road so abruptly that his tires squeal a little.

Gamora tenses immediately, hand going to the hip where her sword is. “What is it?”

“I will put up with quite many irritating things,” says Knight Rider. “But I will _not_ allow you to sully my dashboard with _mud._ ”

Peter puts his feet down, shaking his head. “So...no tunes, then?”

“I insist that you clean that up before I do anything else,” says Knight Rider. Then he turns his engine off, as if to punctuate his point.

Peter sighs, turns around and fumbles in the back until he locates an acceptable scrap of fabric in their bag. Pulling it out, he leans forward again, quickly wiping off the dash, then polishing it a bit. “Better?”

“Better,” Knight Rider agrees. He starts moving again, but still doesn’t put on any music, so maybe he’s sulking.

Peter turns to give Gamora a smug smile, but then sees that there’s a look of vague horror, or possibly disgust on her face. “Hey. What?”

She cocks her head toward the fabric in his hand. “Is that your dirty underwear?”

He glances down at what is, in fact, a pair of boxers, then shrugs. “Well they’re dirty _now._ ”

“Oh my god, Peter,” Gamora says, shaking her head.

“You wiped your _underwear_ on my dash?” Knight Rider asks, sounding more horrified than Gamora.

“They were clean!” he protests. “It’s just fabric, yeesh.”

“Kindly keep your underwear away from my dash in the future.”

He tosses the boxers into the back. “Happy now?”

Knight Rider says nothing and Gamora just sighs.

“They were clean,” he mutters petulantly, slouching in his seat with his arms crossed, feet firmly planted on the floor. As annoying as that was, it at least had the fortunate side-effect of distracting him for a couple minutes. Now they’re sitting in silence and he’s got nothing to do but think about the prospect of going back to his hometown, seeing his grandfather for the first time in thirty years, and his heart is gonna beat out of his chest if he thinks about this for another second.

“So, Knight Rider,” he says suddenly. “If you won’t give us some music, how ‘bout some recommendations for cool stuff we can see on our way to St. Charles?” Gamora gives him a curious look and he continues, “It’s still a road trip! We gotta sightsee!”

“There is a lot of _stuff_ to see in Missouri,” Knight Rider says. “Would you like to narrow down the criteria at all?”

“I dunno, something cool.” He shrugs, staring out the windshield, at the raindrops being pushed to the side by the windshield wipers. “Something with water.”

“Something with water,” Knight Rider repeats, in a tone that grossly approximates thoughtfulness. He’s pretty sure A.I.’s don’t know how to do contemplative, though, and if they did, it would take approximately half a second by human time.

“Yes,” Gamora agrees, sounding more eager than he’d expected. He’d hoped she’d be interested, of course, but he didn’t think she’d go for the distraction that easily. “Since we did not get to swim in the stream at the campsite.” So she still has that on her mind, predictably.

“There are approximately thirty rivers in Missouri,” says Knight Rider, then makes a sound like he’s sucking in a very large breath. “Including Big Piney River, Black River, Blackwater River, Bourbeuse River, Charriton River, Cuivre River, Current River, Eleven Point River, Gasconade River, Grand River, James River, Lamine River, Locust Creek, Marais des Cygnes River, Meramec River, Mississippi River, Missouri River, Mussel For--”

“Okay, okay,” Peter interrupts. “There’s a lot of rivers, we get it. We don’t need to hear all of them. Next?”

“There are also quite a few lakes,” says Knight Rider. “Such as--”

“Are any of them on the way to St. Charles?” asks Gamora, giving Peter a meaningful look.

“Not directly. However, there is one that is only an hour out of the way: an underground lake in Bonne Terre Mine. It is--”

Peter cuts him off, sitting up straighter. “Underground? That sounds awesome!” He looks to Gamora for approval.

“It does sound interesting,” she says, nodding.

“Okay!” He claps his hands together. “Knight Rider, change course. We’re heading to Bunny Terra!”

“Bonne Terre,” the car corrects smugly. “And right away, Mr. Star-Lord. Estimated time of arrival is in four hours and twelve minutes.”

“If we’re gonna be driving that long, we _need_ music, okay?” he begs. “Can you please turn on the radio?”

“You only had to ask,” Knight Rider says, and a second later an upbeat tune is filling the car, another one that he’s fairly certain he’s heard before but can’t place the exact memory.

_Communication is the problem to the answer  
You've got her number and your hand is on the phone_

“I asked like three times,” he mumbles.

“Peter,” Gamora says, and he turns to find her watching him with concern. “Are you sure you want to delay getting to St. Charles?”

He shrugs, totally cool, totally nonchalant. “Yeah, what’s the rush? Like I said, this is a road trip. The point is the journey, babe, not the destination.”

“All right,” she says, after staring at him for another moment. “If you are sure.”

“I am.” He turns up the music a bit and settles back farther in his seat, letting the vaguely familiar melody distract him from thoughts of their eventual destination.

* * *

“We have arrived,” says Knight Rider, which startles Peter out of a half doze. He stretches quickly, then turns to look at Gamora, who’s looking out the window.

The building a few hundred yards away is odd-looking: It’s two stories high and broad enough to house at least a few large rooms on each. At the front, there’s what looks like a tower, the roof sloping up to a sharp point. The walls are the color of brick, but he doesn’t think it’s made of actual brick. It almost looks like they’re covered in scales.

“It’s busy,” says Gamora, glancing around the parking lot and then gesturing to a family walking by with several young children in tow.

“Oh,” says Peter, finally looking away from her and the building to take in the rest of the place. “You’re right.”

“It is a popular attraction,” says Knight Rider. “Voted one of the best several years in a row, in fact. I take it you view that as a bad thing.”

“We can go somewhere else,” he tells Gamora quickly, not wanting her to stress about this. He should have thought to check, was too distracted by wanting to avoid thinking about his grandpa.

She bites her lip, tensing as a group passes right next to her door, the sound of their conversation filtering through indistinctly. Then she shakes her head. “No. No, we should go in. I can’t let my—appearance stop us from doing things we want to.”

“I don’t want you to be uncomfortable,” he says, thinking of New York, of how quickly and completely that fell apart.

“That is going to be unavoidable sometimes,” she tells him, conviction growing stronger. “Besides, I have—this.” She digs around in the bag at her feet and pulls out one of the baseball caps they’d gotten from the cryptozoology museum, fixing it on her head.

He smiles. “Babe, that’s—“

“If you tell me I look adorable, I will bite you.”

“Kinky.” He winks, then gets another idea. “Here, take this too.” He reaches in the back and pulls out a jacket they’d bought at Walmart; it’s brown and looks like Chewbacca. “And we can have a code word for if you wanna leave early.”

She raises her eyebrows. “Like metaphor?”

He chokes on air, laughing, guessing by the satisfied glint in her eye that that’s the reaction she’d wanted. “Probably shouldn’t be the same thing we use for our safe word.”

Gamora pulls the hoodie over her head, then shrugs, all innocence and definitely-not-adorable-ness as she readjusts her hat and pulls her hair through the back of it, not quite a ponytail. “It _is_ a safe word, of sorts.”

He shakes his head, the flush still rising in his cheeks, the heated seats suddenly _too_ hot. It’s not that she’s wrong, exactly. It would be a safe word for her, a cue that she’s feeling unsafe, that she needs to get out of the situation immediately. But he’s pretty sure he’d straight up _die_ if she used that word in public, much less in the middle of a busy tour. “Okay, okay, but--still no.”

“We could use ‘Drax,’” says Gamora, with an expression that tells him she’s still messing around.

“Sure,” he says easily. “Then I’ll get confused and start planning an escape route as soon as you decide to put on one of your impressions.”

“I would not need an escape route, I am invisible,” she says, in Drax’s voice.

“Cryptid,” Peter suggests, pointing at her hat, then booping the tip of her nose.

“Might I suggest ‘shawarma’?” Knight Rider breaks in helpfully. “That is what Mr. Stark and Ms. Potts use.”

Gamora makes a face and Peter lets out a loud noise of disgust, clasping his hands over his ears as if he can unhear that. “Oh my god! What the hell, dude? Gross! Why would you tell us that?”

“You seemed to be struggling to come up with a suitable word,” he answers evenly, but Peter _knows_ he’s teasing. There’s just something too pleased about those words.

“So you tell us someone else’s?! We don’t need to know that!”

Knight Rider lowers his voice, saying in what is totally a petulant mumble: “And you admonish _me_ for being a prude.”

“Let’s just pretend we never heard that,” he begs Gamora, who nods in agreement.

“Cryptid will work,” she says. “Or I can just inform you that I would like to leave.”

He shrugs. “I guess that would work too.”

“All right.” She pulls the hood over her head so that it’s covering the hat, so that the only parts of her skin that are visible are her face and her hands. It’s not foolproof, but she at least looks less distinctive. “How do I look?”

“Gorgeous, as always,” he says. Then, when she gives him a look, adds, “As disguised as you can get right now.” He leans in and kisses the top of her head, though it’s really just the top of her hat, and mainly to be a dick to Knight Rider. Then he climbs out of the car and offers his hand.

The disguise turns out to be better than he’d thought, or if people can tell that she’s an alien, they just don’t care. Nobody comments as they enter the building--a converted train station, complete with a few repurposed cars out front--and purchase their tickets. Yet another experience courtesy of Stark Enterprises.

Then there’s a few minutes of waiting in a lobby of sorts while people congregate for the tour, including a fair number of children. At least two of them are teenagers glued to their phones, and he can’t help thinking of Groot.

“Hey,” he says to one of them, who’s just shrugged off his mother, feigning disinterest when she pressed a kiss to his forehead. “Be nice to your mom while you can.”

The teenager gives him a disdainful look that _really_ reminds him of Groot, but his mother says, “Thank you! See, Billy? Some boys appreciate their mamas.”

Billy rolls his eyes and inches away. “Not in front of my friends, mom, gees.”

“Are you okay?” Gamora whispers, linking her arm through his.

“I’m fine.” He bites his lip, forcing himself to look away from Billy and his mom, and the other families around. He wonders if he’d ever have gotten to this stage with his mother if she’d survived that long, and he’d stayed on Earth with her. He hopes he wouldn’t have. “This is making me miss Groot,” he says, which isn’t a lie.

“Me too,” Gamora says. “We’ll have to buy him something here.”

The people in front of them have started moving, shuffling through some double doors at the end of the lobby, so they head that way too, ending up in a cold, tan chamber, with walls, ceiling, and floors made of clay and rock. On the far wall is an archway with a staircase heading down, but he can’t see past the first couple of steps.

“We’ll grab something on the way out,” he says, steering her towards the side to the rest of the tour group in before them. There’s about twenty other people in here with them, and Peter’s grateful. That’s not so much that it makes him think of crowds and New York and Gamora panicking, but it’s enough that they can hang out in the back of the group and not draw attention to themselves.

The stairs make him groan inwardly, because it’s just now occurred to him that somehow he’s put himself in yet another position that requires physical exertion. It’s not that he’s feeling particularly bad. In fact, even his knees are getting closer to healed, judging from his most recent bandage change, as is his palm. But he hasn’t been particularly aware of his own physical status at all lately, has been shocked by his body failing him.

He’s pleasantly surprised when they begin the walk, though. His legs feel perfectly steady, knees finally pain-free. Gamora still has her arm linked through his, but Peter shifts it closer still, wrapping it around her waist and then slipping his fingers into the back pocket of the jeans she’s wearing. She looks up at him, arching an eyebrow.

“What?” he asks, tone perfectly innocent and nonchalant. “It’s a Terran tradition. Like holding hands with my girl.”

“All right,” she says easily, then tucks her hand into _his_ back pocket. “Is this also a tradition?”

He grins so hard, his face hurts. “Absolutely.”

“How about this?”

Suddenly he’s extra glad they’re the last in the group, because the way she grabs his ass then makes him jump and nearly squeal. “If that’s not a tradition, then it should be.”

“I approve.” She winks.

He’s so distracted by the _traditions_ that he doesn’t notice when the group stops moving and might’ve plowed right into the person in front of him if Gamora hadn’t used her arm to hold him back.

“If you’ll all take a look to your left,” the tour guide, who had introduced himself as Greg earlier, says from up front, “you’ll see one of the _beautiful_ young formations in our caverns, it’s just _gorgeous_!”

Peter glances over, expecting to see something really impressive from the way Greg talks about it; he speaks with all the enthusiasm and volume of someone discussing the most exciting thing he’s ever seen. But when he looks all he sees is kind of a cool rock growing in a little alcove across a gap in the path.

He keeps listening to Greg for a moment, thinking maybe he’ll reveal some cool power the thing has, but when he just keeps going on about stalactites and stalagmites and water dripping, he tunes him out and looks at Gamora —

To find her staring at the formation as if _is_ something special, listening raptly to Greg as he talks.

Watching her is far more interesting than Greg and his dumb overly-enthusiastic voice, Peter decides immediately. Plus, the rocks in here kind of give him the creeps. It's not like he's never been in a cave before--He even did one of his more infamous Ravager jobs inside of a cavern filled with booby traps to protect the treasure he'd ended up stealing. But the shape and color of these particular rocks make him uneasy, and suddenly it clicks: they look kind of like Ego’s core.

“Hey,” says Gamora, shifting to lay a hand on his shoulder.

He shakes himself, wondering whether she can sense his tension. “What?”

“Look at that rock.” She cocks her head excitedly toward the formation Greg was just monologuing about.

He looks. “Yeah?”

“It looks like it's covered in melted swampmallows!” she murmurs.

Peter stares at her for a moment before it connects, and he realizes that she's right about the rock. “Oh. Marshmallows, babe.”

She nods. “Right.”

“It kinda does,” he says fondly, focus already shifted back to watching her.

They don’t see many other notable features for a while; just dark alcoves, some abandoned mining equipment, and a lot of rocks. Greg keeps pointing out mundane stuff, tells them stories about how people have been married down here, and proposed to, but most of what he says filters in one of Peter’s ears and out the other.

Still, Gamora seems taken with it, which surprises him given how much she normally hates dark places. He’s struck for probably the millionth time since he met her by her strength, her ability to still find beauty in things that remind her of past traumas.

It’s not until they round a corner some time later, though, that she’s really impressed.

“Here it is!” Greg announces, gesturing behind him to the huge lake, the water stunningly blue, seeming to go on forever, well past what he can see. There’s a small, empty boat waiting at the dock. “The Billion Gallon Lake!”

Peter only looks at it for a second before turning to look at Gamora, who’s staring at the water in awe, inching closer to see more of it.

“It’s beautiful,” she whispers.

When she first turns to look at him, he thinks it’s a trick of the light. But then he takes a step closer and realizes that no, her eyes actually _are_ glistening with unshed tears.

“Hey,” he breathes, moving to wrap his arm around her again, touching her cheek with his other hand, though he’s careful not to interrupt her view of the lake. He gropes for the right words to say in this situation, or for anything at all, but...He’s finding that looking _her_ is affecting him in the same way she’s responding to the lake, his throat tight and his eyes burning.

“Are you okay?” she asks, taking the words from him as usual.

He nods, smiles, and sniffles a bit. “Yeah. You?”

“It’s _beautiful_ ,” she repeats, leaning into him. “I never thought I would get see anything like it.”

“You mean--growing up?” he asks, knowing she’s made similar statements in the past.

She shakes her head, though, surprising him. “No. When I was--in the Stone.”

“Oh,” he breathes, feeling as though he’s been punched in the gut. Of course. “Oh, babe.” He pulls her to him in a rush, unable to help himself, not caring now if he’s disrupting her view. There will be plenty of time for that later, right now he needs to hold her, needs to reassure both of them that this is real.

“Hey!” comes Greg’s voice a few moments later, definitely aimed at them and definitely extra obnoxiously loud. “I _said_ everyone on the boat!”

Gamora tenses, pulling away from him as if she’s gotten caught with her hand in the cookie jar. Peter shuffles in front of her to obstruct the rest of the tour group’s view of her, as every one of them is now looking their way.

“Sorry!” he calls. He glances back at Gamora questioningly, as he doesn’t think either of them realized they’d be getting on a boat for this. She’s blushing, but she nods, so he takes her hand and jogs to the boat. “We got distracted!”

“Well get distracted by these life jackets!” Greg yells, despite the fact that they’re scarcely ten feet away now, tossing two bright orange ones at them. “And get ready for the greatest boat tour of your lives!”

Peter catches the life jackets and hands one to Gamora, as everyone’s attention turns away from them once again, focusing on Greg or the caverns or the lake. He glances at Gamora to share a smile, only to find that she too has turned her attention to the water below them, gripping the railing of the boat and staring down at it, jaw a little slack with amazement.

He smiles to himself instead.

* * *

“Terrans use this to travel?” asks Gamora, running her hand along the outside of the converted caboose they’re about to spend the night in.

That feat took some of Peter’s very best hustling, since they’re not here to scuba dive. Fortunately, the rooms weren’t sold out for the night and he’d provided a very nice tip, once again courtesy of Stark. The idea of staying in a train-car-turned-lodge is just too cool to pass up. It’s like something out of one of his childhood fantasies, which means it goes well with the talking car, and the unbelievably gorgeous alien girlfriend. Plus it means another night of not being in St. Charles.

“Well, not anymore,” says Peter, watching her. “Trains are, like, super obsolete now. But they were really important back in the day.” He’s pretty sure, anyway. He _knows_ they were a big deal in cowboy movies. And there’s just no way something so clunky is still a thing.

“That is a relief,” says Gamora. “They seem very unsafe.”

“Totally,” says Peter, deciding not to tell her about shootouts happening on them. That’s not the kind of thing she needs to be considering right now. “Totally unsafe. But this one _is_ safe, because it’s a hotel.”

“Well, yes. I don’t think they’re going to try to drive it like this.”

“Therefore, safe.” He grins, then unlocks the door to their room and holds it open for her, letting her duck under his arm to go in first.

The room is small, barely space for the sparse furniture inside. The bed takes up more than half, a table and a dresser the rest, and a bathroom at the end. The box shape and the old luggage compartments running along the top of one wall look like his memories of train cars from old TV shows, giving him a sense of deja vu despite the fact that he’s never been here. It makes him feel like he’s been shrunk and put inside the model train set his grandpa always set up around Christmas.

He shakes his head, trying to shove that thought away, along with a lot of other thoughts.

“I’m going to change,” Gamora announces, taking her clothes and heading into the tiny bathroom. She normally would just change in front of him instead of seeking privacy for it; another thought he shoves to the back of his mind.

“All right,” he says too late, the door already shut in his face.

He looks around the car for another few moments, paces a bit, then flops down on the bed. It’s comfortable enough, though anything but luxurious. Somewhere between the bunks on the Benatar and their quarters on the Quadrant, so well within his acceptable range.

He’s about to start counting ceiling tiles when the sound of a phone ringing makes him jump. Digging through his pockets, he locates his and quickly realizes that it isn’t the one making the noise.

“Are you going to answer that?” Gamora asks, through the bathroom door.

“It’s yours!” says Peter, grabbing for the hoodie she’s discarded on the edge of the bed. The phone must be in the one of the pockets.

“So answer it!” she says again, tone vaguely irritated.

When he finally manages to dig the phone out, he notices that the number currently calling is unlisted. That gives him pause--not that he’s used Earth phones much, but he knows enough about communication in general to realize that usually isn’t a great sign. Then again, Gamora’s told him to answer it, and if he doesn’t do it soon, he’s going to miss it.

“Hello?” he blurts, fumbling to put the thing to his ear.

“Ugh,” says the voice on the other end of the line. “ _You._ Stark said this was Gamora’s phone code.”

Peter sputters for a second, stunned by the voice he’s hearing. “ _Nebula_?”

From the bathroom, Gamora calls out, “Nebula?” and comes bursting out half dressed, wearing her sleep shirt but still holding her leggings in her hand. “Is she okay? What happened? Is that one of the others?”

“She’s fine,” he assures her quickly. “It’s _her_ —wait, _are_ you fine?”

“I will be better if you move your screen. I am sick of looking at your ugly ear.”

“My ear’s not ugly,” he mutters, pulling back the phone to see Nebula’s unamused face staring back at him; apparently he hadn’t noticed that this was a video call. She looks okay, he notes, but tired. He can also see the edge of a bandage on her arm before the rest of her disappears below the screen.

“Nebula!” Gamora exclaims, grabbing his arm to tilt the screen. Peter doesn’t miss the way Nebula’s face softens at the sight of her sister. “Are you— _here_? On Terra?”

“Gross,” Nebula says, wrinkling her nose as if she’s smelled something unpleasant. “No. While you idiots have been trudging through that swamp planet, I figured out how to patch the holo into its archaic communication system. With a marginal amount of help from Stark.”

“This is _excellent,_ ” says Gamora, clearly delighted as she takes the phone out of his hand entirely. For a moment he catches sight of her other hand coming up instinctively, as if she might be able to touch Nebula’s face through the screen. Then she realizes what she's doing and drops it back to her side.

“You might be willing to put up with ancient technology,” says Nebula, lip curling a bit, “but I am not.”

Gamora glances at Peter, then back at the screen again. “The technology here is not _so_ outdated. That may be a misconception. And it is not a swamp.”

“Over seventy percent of the planet's surface is covered in water,” says Nebula. “I looked it up. That is a swamp if I have ever heard of one.”

Gamora's eyes widen, and she turns to Peter with a look of questioning wonder. “Is that true? There is that much water here?”

“Uh, yeah?” says Peter, wracking his brain. He thinks he vaguely remembers something like that from school. Besides, no way is he about to contradict Nebula.

“That is _amazing_ ,” Gamora says a bit dreamily.

Nebula makes a sound of disgust. “Stop being so _emotional._ And put your pants on.”

Gamora glances down at her bare legs as if just noticing. “Here,” she says, handing the phone to Peter while she puts her leggings on.

“Uh…” He blinks down at the screen, where Nebula is staring into his soul, face somewhere between blank and murderous. The last time he communicated with her via video call, she’d been yelling at him for not telling her Gamora was alive. Guilt surges through him at the reminder.

“So, uh, how is it going?” he asks awkwardly.

Her lips turn up a tiny bit in a smirk. “Fifty-six.” An updated kill count, he assumes.

Gamora, now with pants, unceremoniously takes the phone back from him. “How are you?” she asks, her voice gentle and kind. She clearly misses her sister, Peter realizes. Nebula may kind of scare him, but she’s important to Gamora, and he’s grateful that she has this way of communicating with her now.

“I am fine,” Nebula says brusquely. “I didn’t call to talk to you about feelings or your dumb boyfriend’s dumb planet. I called to talk about...your last message.”

Peter can see the screen, but with the way Gamora is holding it, he doesn’t think Nebula can see him. Still, she glances off to the side as if trying to glare at him.

Gamora looks at him too, something hesitant in her eyes. He tries to keep his face blank, but fear of what her last message might have been surges through him, wondering if there’s something she hasn’t told him, something wrong with her or if she’s unhappy with _him_.

“Yes,” Gamora says finally, turning back toward the phone screen, though there’s still something he can’t entirely read in her face. There’s a muscle jumping in her jaw, a sure sign that she’s tense, though he doesn’t think she’s aware that it’s one of her tells. “If it is too much to ask--”

“No,” Nebula says immediately, her tone fierce, leaving no room for questions, even from Gamora. “I will do it.

Peter glances back and forth between the two of them, catches the significance of Gamora’s tiny nod. There are multitudes passing between them, he knows, that he can’t hope to interpret. It’s been four years and he still has no idea how to read their nonverbal communication with one another, and usually that’s just fine. Now, though...Gamora is keeping something intentionally vague, he thinks. Something she doesn’t want to say in front of him.

“All right,” says Gamora. “Then what did you want to discuss about it?”

Nebula’s expression changes to one of disdain again, like the answer to that question ought to be obvious. “I want you to tell me who I need to kill.”

“You don’t need to kill anybody,” Gamora says quickly. “I was just hoping you could find some information.”

“Yes,” Nebula drawls. “I know what you asked. And who do I need to kill in order to find this information?”

“No one,” Gamora sighs and looks at Peter again, apparently making some kind of decision.

Not knowing what else to do, he sits on the edge of the bed and starts taking his boots off, probably doing a very bad job of pretending he’s not paying attention.It’s not like he’s eavesdropping or anything. So far, Gamora has chosen to have this conversation in front of him. If she decides now to leave, or ask him to leave, so she can have it in private he’ll respect that, despite the anxiety he feels just thinking about it, about the fact that she’s keeping something else from him.

Gamora steels herself, though, straightens her shoulders and turns back to the phone. She speaks with confidence, but he can tell by the tight set of her shoulders and the way she’s gripping the phone that it’s costing her. “I remember the people I spoke to when I was searching for the Stone. I will send you their names. But for now, the best place to start is Vormir. There was a Stone Keeper there, guarding it. He may have all the information I need.”

Nebula huffs. “Clearly not very good at his job.”

Gamora arches an eyebrow. “How so?”

“Well he didn't exactly _keep_ it, did he?” asks Nebula. “He failed to protect it.”

Gamora shakes her head. “He fulfilled his duty. It is not his fault that I gave Thanos the location.”

“No,” Nebula says darkly. “It's mine.”

“Nebula!” Gamora makes a frustrated sound in the back of her throat, her free hand coming up to clutch the hair at the back of her head, like she might want to rip it out.

Peter looks up again, unable to stop himself from reacting entirely. He doesn't want to interrupt, though, senses that he shouldn't, because he needs to know what this is about.

On the screen, Nebula's lip curls, more a sneer than a smile. “It was a joke, sister.”

Gamora's hand falls back to her side, fingers curling into a fist as she takes a tense, measured breath. “I only want information from him, Nebula. No more innocents die for Thanos’s cause. Swear to me.”

He nearly loses his breath at those words, has to curl his fingers into his thigh to ground himself, keep himself from spiralling. The words _swear to me on your mother_ play through his mind but he tries to stay calm. This isn’t about him, so he’s gotta keep it together. He has to find out what’s going on.

Gamora glances at him again, and he plasters on a calm, placid face. He doubts she buys it, judging from the way she winces, but she shifts her focus back to Nebula when she says, “He is not innocent if he aided Thanos.”

Peter forces himself to shift his focus to Nebula, too. He’s inclined to agree with her here; he’s never heard of this Stone Keeper before, but it sounds like he allowed Thanos to get the Stone somehow which means he’s partly responsible for--well. What happened.

“Promise me, Nebula,” Gamora insists.

After a moment Nebula, clearly reluctantly, says, “Fine.”

 _Thank you_ ,” Gamora says, then softer, “Thank you, Nebula. Really.”

“Yeah, yeah. I’ll let you know what I find.”

Gamora nods, then gives in to the urge to touch the screen with her finger as if trying to touch her sister’s face. “I love you.”

Nebula makes a frustrated noise then looks off to the side where Peter’s standing, glaring at him even though she can’t see him.

Then she glares back at Gamora and grumbles, “I love you, too,” and hangs up before anyone can say anything else.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> neither of us have ever been to Bonne Terre but once again we tried our best with research from pictures and articles and accounts of the tour!


	22. Chapter 22

Gamora stares at the phone for a moment longer before tossing it unceremoniously onto the bed. When she looks back up at Peter, her expression is practically blank, perfectly neutral, which is how he knows for sure that it’s a facade.

“The bathroom is available,” she says matter-of-factly. “If you wanted to use it to change.”

Peter blinks, his first thought that he shouldn’t _need_ to change in a separate room, has always done that right in front of her, including on this trip. But then the rest of his mind catches up, and he realizes that she’s changing the subject, purposely diverting him away from everything he’s just seen and heard. 

“Okay. So...are we not gonna talk about--” He gestures at the phone. “--that?”

Gamora shrugs, still evasive, though she has to know that it isn’t going to work, that they’ll have to have the conversation eventually. Maybe just procrastinating then. “What about it? It’s good that she’s figured out how to contact us in real-time, I suppose.”

“Well,” says Peter, in as casual a tone as he can manage, “she didn’t say anything about our fried sugar pictures, for one thing. I’m kind of disappointed. I was totally looking forward to those insults.”

She looks surprised; she’d probably completely forgotten they sent Nebula those, since she’s clearly had something else on her mind. “Perhaps she is taking time to craft the most cutting insults she can.”

“Yeah, maybe,” he says, pretending to consider that. “Or _perhaps_ she’s a little distracted by the fact that you asked her to do something involving the Stone you were recently, you know, trapped in.” He shrugs but his shoulders are vibrating with tension. “Guess it could be either.”

Gamora crosses her arms over her chest, challenging. “I guess it could be.”

He matches her posture and stares her down for a few seconds, but quickly realizes he’s not going to beat her in this particular stubborn-off. He throws his arms up and sighs, trying with little success to pass his concern and near-panic off as mere frustration. “Are you really not gonna tell me what that was about? Gamora, if something’s...if there’s something wrong, please, _please_ tell me, I can’t--”

“Of course something is wrong!” she yells with her own frustrated noise, her casual act dropping all at once. “You _know_ what is wrong! _I_ am wrong!” She points with both hands to her abdomen. 

Peter falls silent, for once really and truly at a loss for words. The pieces fall into place all at once: She's asked Nebula to find information about her soul, about the possibility that a piece of it might still be trapped inside of the Stone. The thought that she believes it so strongly makes his skin crawl. The fact that she's kept that request from him makes him feel sick. 

“Baby,” he manages finally, taking a tentative step toward her, feeling irrationally like one wrong move might break her entirely. “Baby, you could _never_ be wrong.”

“Yet I am,” says Gamora, letting her hands fall to her sides again in a helpless gesture. “I am, and I have to learn how to fix it or it is just a matter of time before--"

“What?” asks Peter, touching her cheek with a badly shaking hand. He doesn't want to hear the answer, but he needs it. “Before what?”

“Before you leave me,” she whispers, her voice scarcely more than breath.

“Before I _what_?” He gapes at her; of all the things he thought she’d say, that was nowhere on the list. “Before _I_ —Gamora, _what_? I would never, ever leave you, how could you possibly think that?” 

“Because I’m broken,” she says, voice cracking, lip wobbling. “You think I don’t love you anymore, a piece of my soul might be missing—you deserve better than that! You deserve someone—someone whole.” 

“ _Mora_.” He slides his hands to her shoulders, and when she doesn’t tense or pull away he throws caution to the wind and wraps his arms around her, cradling her to his chest. “I believe you still love me, sweetheart, I do. And nothing in this whole damn universe could stop me from loving you, okay?” 

Her arms are shaking worse than his but her grip on the side of his shirt is tight, as if she’s anchoring herself to him. “What if a piece of me really is trapped in the Stone?” 

“Then we’ll get it back,” he says firmly, holding her as tight as he dares. 

“What if we can’t?” she gasps. He feels moisture against his chest and realizes with some surprise that she’s crying. 

“Then I will still love you and never leave you.” He kisses the top of her head, rocking her slightly back and forth as she starts to cry harder. 

“What if I never get the silver back?” she asks, nearly incomprehensible.

“Then you’ll be a little bit more like me,” says Peter, rubbing her back in big, slow circles. He hates the way his stomach drops at the suggestion; he loves her silver as a part of who she is, and also for the reassurance that it gives him.

He’s not even sure if she can hear him, knows exactly how it feels to cry so hard that it’s all-consuming. Still, in all the years he’s known her, all the vulnerability she’s entrusted him with, he doesn’t know if he’s ever heard her sound quite _this_ broken. Very carefully, he shifts their weight, though it’s a little awkward with the way she’s still gripping his shirt. He manages to slip an arm under her knees and lift her carefully, kissing the top of her head before laying her down on the mattress. She still doesn’t let go of his shirt, so Peter lets himself be pulled down half on top of her, then rolls over to hold her against his chest.

“I love you,” he breathes reverently, peppering light kisses across her forehead, her temples, her scars as he speaks. “Silver, green, whatever. I don’t care. I love you, and I’m not going anywhere.”

“I love you too,” she sobs, somehow crying even harder. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry.” 

He doesn’t know whether she’s apologizing for crying or for not being silver or for something else, but either way his response is the same. “You have _nothing_ to be sorry for. You are perfect, Mora. And nothing in the universe could ever make me want to leave you, or love you any less. I swear.” 

Her cheeks are covered in tears and her face is contorted as she sobs but he keeps kissing it anyway, raining kisses all over her face until she can’t keep her head up any longer. She buries her face into his neck, then all he can do is stroke her hair and her back, and keep murmuring to her soothingly, even if she’s too far gone to hear right now. 

She’s cried a few times since she came back, but never like this, hasn’t let herself have the breakdown he knows she needed. As much as it pains him to see her this way, he’s glad she’s finally letting herself -- even if it’s probably just because she can’t hold it in any longer. 

When she speaks again, she’s still crying so hard that it takes him several moments to realize that she’s trying to form words. He runs his fingers through her hair again, then traces the line of her jaw until he can rest two fingers under her chin, gently coaxing her to lift it a bit.

“What is it?” he asks, running his thumb feather-light across her cheek, catching a few tears, though it’s not like it matters with how fast they’re still flowing. Still, he keeps the movement going, caressing her skin, feeling the familiar lines of her scars, beautiful to him even though he knows what they represent.

“He--” She breaks off, choking, then swallows with an enormous effort before trying again. “He-- _ruined_ me.”

Peter frowns because she’s not ruined, could never be _ruined_ in his eyes, though he’s pretty sure he knows what she means. “Thanos?”

Gamora nods frantically, still speaking with effort though the words come tumbling out much faster this time. “He took my planet. Took my family, my childhood. Now he’s _dead_ and he still gets to keep my silver.”

“Mora,” he whispers, heart breaking for all that she’s lost, how sharp and fresh those old losses must feel now in light of the new ones. “That doesn’t make you ruined. He took--so much from you. But you’re still _you_.”

“But the silver was a _part_ of me,” she says, gasping for breath between words. “A part of me that I loved, that _you_ loved. It connected me to my planet--my people--” She breaks off, burying her face in his neck, crying too hard to be understood again. 

He cups the back of her head, soothing as best he can. A few tears of his own escape; he can’t help but grieve in sympathy with her. He knows how much that connection has meant to her. As much as he wants to assure her that they’ll get it back and everything will be okay, he can’t; the truth is, he has no idea if it’s going to be possible to get it back, and the last thing he wants is to have to break another promise to her, to fail her yet again. 

“We’re gonna do everything we can to get it back,” he says instead, because that he _is_ going to do; he can’t promise her that it’s going to work, but he can promise that he’ll try. “And even if we can’t… You’re still keeping what it represents.” 

“Am I?” she asks, words still muffled against his shoulder, but her tone is sharper now, bitter. “Am I really?”

“Baby--” Peter tries to answer, tries to reassure her, but his voice catches, breaks over the emotion that’s somehow clogging his throat yet again. He wonders fleetingly whether that will ever completely go away, whether even having her back will ever be enough for either of them to stop grieving. He wants to tell her that she’s wrong about Thanos breaking her--too precious, too strong for that to ever really happen. Yet he can’t deny that she’s wounded, terribly, and that thinking about it quickly threatens to overwhelm him. 

What if nothing that he does is enough? What if all of his attempts are a pathetic joke in the face of her trauma and pain? What if it eats away at her like the cancer did to his mother and all of this turns out to be nothing more than an agonizingly slow goodbye?

“All I think about is losing you,” she sobs, almost like she might be hearing his thoughts somehow. “All I think about is the ways you might be hurt. That’s--that isn’t-- _silver_.”

“It’s okay, it’s okay,” he murmurs as her sobs intensify again, trying to comfort her even though her words are sending him into a bit of a spiral as well. The silver has always been physical proof that she wants him and loves him, thinks of him as a life partner. If she’s lost that -- 

_No_. He cuts that thought off. She _hasn’t_ , she can’t have lost that. She still loves him; she’s said it, he knows it even if he might have his moments of doubt. 

Thinking about losing him doesn’t mean she’s lost her ability to love him in that forever way. It’s not like he’s a stranger to those thoughts himself. He’s gotten better the past few days, but for a while there every time he closed his eyes he saw her dying; he couldn’t look away from her for half a second without fearing she was going to disappear before he turned back around. 

Still, though…while _he_ has been having those fears less, apparently Gamora’s haven’t lessened at all. _You failed, you failed, you failed_. 

“Hey,” he says gently, forcing himself to speak over the litany in his head. “You still love me, right?” 

“So much,” she cries, face still buried in his neck. 

“And you wanna be with me, right?”

She nods vigorously. 

“Then the rest of it...we’ll figure out,” he says, to reassure both of them. 

“I don't _want_ to figure it out!” she says immediately, her tone somewhere between fierce and petulant now, a combination he’s only ever heard from her...and Nebula. “I want it to _be_ figured out! I want--" She breaks off again, crying too hard to form words. 

“What do you want, baby?” Peter asks, twisting a couple of curls gently around his fingers before letting them go. He wants to jump in and try to reassure her again, is desperate for something, anything to stop the anguished sounds coming from her. But he knows better than to interrupt her, knows that will only make things worse. 

“I want to--be fixed,” she manages finally, sniffling loudly. “I'm so-- _tired_ , Peter.”

She doesn't mean from lack of sleep, he knows, though it's definitely also that. If only it were as simple as a physical problem. 

“I know,” he says sadly. “But healing… It takes time, you know. You’ve told me that yourself.” 

“I don’t like it,” she insists. Any other time, he might smile at her petulance, her remarkable stubbornness, but now it just tears him in two. “I can’t stop… I keep seeing you dying; being tortured or--or dying in an explosion—or a crash or jumping in front of me to—“ At this point she breaks off, once again crying too hard to form speech. She was already practically wheezing between words, and now her breathing becomes shallow and uneven, seeming to choke on her own sobs.

“Hey, hey, it’s okay,” he says, rubbing her back in soothing circles. “It’s gonna be okay, Mora.” He keeps up a steady stream of reassurance and platitudes, but he starts to get really worried when she still hasn’t calmed a few minutes later. Fresh tears spring to his eyes to join hers because now he can’t even _comfort_ her, what the hell kind of boyfriend is he? She’s gonna hyperventilate from crying too hard and he can’t do anything to stop it. 

In the past, he thinks, he would have told her to breathe with him, would have put her hand on his stomach and made her match the rhythm of rise and fall. That won't work now, though, because his own breath is coming too fast, too shallow as the tears keep flooding his eyes. For a few minutes he just gives up, decides that maybe they'll both fucking hyperventilate and lets himself cry. 

But eventually he starts thinking again, of Groot, tiny and scared in his pot, of himself those first few months on the Eclector. Of his mother, beautiful and sad and scared too, trying to comfort him after telling him about her cancer. 

Slowly, Peter starts to hum, his voice hoarse and wobbling, but his mom’s had been that way too. O-o-h Child was the song she'd sung then, so it's the one he chooses now too. It's still the one he thinks of most when things are really bad, when they hopeless. He might doubt its words sometimes, like he had that night on the Benatar after losing Gamora. But it's never _really_ failed him yet. 

It takes a few moments, but soon there’s a hitch in Gamora’s already rough breathing, of surprise or recognition or maybe happiness, he doesn’t know. But he takes it as a sign of encouragement and keeps going, pushing through his own tears and the pain in his chest that always comes from repressing them for too long. 

Eventually, about halfway through the song, he steadies himself enough to manage words. They’re weak and choked, and he misses a few here and there, but he does it. 

“ _Some day, yeah_ ,” he sings, voice barely a breath against her hair. “ _We’ll walk in the rays of a beautiful sun; some day when the world is much brighter._ ”

Gamora’s grip on his shirt somehow tightens, as if she’s trying to get closer to him even though she’s mostly on top of him. She’s still sobbing, but her breathing rate is a little less alarming now, so he keeps going to the end of the song. 

To his surprise -- and immense relief -- when he finishes, Gamora chokes out, “Keep going,” and he’d do absolutely anything she requested. 

He thinks for only a couple seconds before deciding on the next song. It’s one of Gamora’s favorites from the Zune, one they’ve danced to quite a few times; out in the middle of the ship, in the kitchen, in their quarters, her head against his chest as they spin and sway. 

“ _Honey, you are my shining star,_ ” he sings, shifting so that his hand circles her back in the song’s familiar rhythm. “ _Don’t you go away…_ ” His voice breaks on those lyrics; in retrospect, this might not be the most comforting song for the moment, especially since the next stanza ends on _until my dying day._ Still, the sentiment of the song is so true, so appropriate that he doesn’t want to stop. Instead he goes back to humming again, bobbing his head as much as he can like they might somehow be able to dance while lying down on this weird bed, in this weird room.

It’s working, though, because her breathing continues to slowly even out as he continues to struggle with his own emotions. The song slowly loosens the knot in his chest until he’s crying openly again, tears rolling down his cheeks and landing in her hair, on the skin of her forehead. 

She lifts her head as he finishes humming, meeting his eyes with her own red-rimmed ones. “Thank you,” she breathes, then reaches up to catch a few of the tears that he can’t seem to stop. “Are you all right?”

“Yeah, yes,” he says quickly, cupping her cheek to wipe away her tears, not wanting this to become about him. 

She immediately gives him a look, effective even though she’s still crying softly. “Peter.”

He sighs and shrugs; it was worth a shot. “I’m…I’m scared of losing you, too. I can’t even imagine what it was like, seeing all those--possibilities. I wish you didn’t have to.”

“I’m sorry,” she says, tears falling faster again. “This is why I didn’t tell you for so long. It’s been haunting me and now you too--”

“No, baby--” He uses both hands to hold her cheeks, needing her to understand this. The last thing she needs right now is a guilt spiral. “It’s okay. I want you to share this kind of thing with me. It kills me that you had to suffer with it alone all this time. But--you said they weren’t all bad, right?” 

“No,” she admits. “But I told you--even the good ones, I lose you.”

“I know,” he says sadly. “But there was other stuff, right? You said you saw stuff that wasn’t...the end. You saw some entire timelines. And some stuff in the middles. Some of that was good, right?”

“Yes.” She sighs heavily, clearly considering. “Some of it was. Well--all right, to be fair, quite a bit of it was. Why is it so much harder to focus on that? Why can't those be the things that I see when I close my eyes?”

“I don't know.” Peter swallows, considering. It's not like this is the first time he's found himself grieving or afraid. Far from it, and perhaps that's even a part of the problem. “I think--When my mother died, all I could think about at first was the painful stuff. The good came a lot later. But it--It helps, when I get to share it with people?”

Gamora nods. “I know. You have always loved telling me about your mother.”

“It helps,” he repeats. “Especially when it's an awesome listener like you. So...wanna tell me some of the good stuff you saw?”

She takes a shaky breath, and doesn’t speak for so long that he’s about to check whether she fell asleep when she finally says, “We were dancing in a few. At various ages.”

“Only a few?” he says mildly. 

She laughs -- or she makes a sound that’s trying to be a laugh, but comes out more like a hiccup. “I’m sure there were many more times I didn’t see.”

“What else?” he prompts. 

Her hand plays along his side as she apparently considers. “Do you remember that trip we took to GoiLea?” 

“How could I forget?” That was the first vacation they took just the two of them. They spent nearly two weeks on that tropical planet. “We wanted to stay forever.”

“Yes,” she says softly, sounding lost in memory. “And do you remember that fantasy we talked about? Retiring there with the team?”

It takes him a few seconds of thinking; most of what he remembers about that trip is Gamora’s face when she tried various tropical fruits, the way she’d looked in that purple bathing suit, the inside of their hotel room… 

Eventually, though, he remembers. “Oh, yeah! We said we’d live on the beach and sell hot chocolate.” 

She nods, giving him a wobbly, watery smile. “Well--I saw us living there. On the beach. Not selling hot chocolate, though, because it turns out that business isn’t so great in the tropics.”

Peter snorts softly, which makes him sniffle and then wipe his eyes with the back of one hand as a few more tears fall. “What do we sell instead? Cold...chocolate?”

Gamora shakes her head, her smile growing a bit stronger. “Nothing, actually. We were rich. From saving the galaxy.”

“Huh,” says Peter, considering that. Somehow he’s never even thought about having enough to truly retire, to do nothing but spend his time being happy with his friends. It seems too good to be true, except he knows that the things she saw were real possibilities. “We must have saved, like, a _lot_ of people. Or maybe one _really_ rich dude.”

“Yes,” says Gamora, shaking her head affectionately. “We were rich in a few of them. There was another where we lived on Xandar. We had _three_ different bathtubs.”

“ _Three_?” he repeats, delighted that there’s a scenario where she allows herself that kind of luxury.

“You bought them for me as a surprise,” she says, her voice soft. “After we bought the house.”

He grins, proud of himself. That’s similar to what he’d done with the bathtub in their quarters on the Quadrant, only she’d known about that one. The surprise was that he’d upgraded it before having it installed, to a way fancier version than the one she’d selected. He’d seen her eyeing it in the store before ultimately selecting a more “practical” model. 

She was so happy she’d cried. 

“And there was a hot tub on the balcony,” she continues. “Rocket thought it would be funny to put bubble bath in it while it was going. The bubbles overflowed and made a giant mess.” She’s laughing now, a quiet, watery sound interrupted by hiccups, and he can’t help but join in. He can picture it easily.

“I guess he’ll never change,” he says fondly. 

“He was a little softer in that future, actually,” Gamora says. “Everything was.”

“What else?” asks Peter, wiping her cheek again and tucking a few pieces of hair behind her ears. It’s actually helping now, her tears nearly stopped, though her eyes are still red and her breath is still rougher than usual. All of that will be gone in a few minutes, he knows. A combination of training and enhanced healing.

“Well,” she says thoughtfully, turning her face into his hand so that she’s practically nuzzling it for a moment, “in that one, we worked as strategic consultants to Nova Prime.” She smirks a bit. “You even wore a suit to work everyday.”

Peter gasps theatrically. “Me? Working for the law? What kind of space pirate does that make me?”

“You liked it,” says Gamora, her smirk getting bigger. Then her expression turns wistful in a way he’s not sure he’s ever quite seen before. “There was--another. We had a child, and we loved her very much. But--you were ill in that one. You died.”

For a long moment all he can say is, “Oh,” completely overwhelmed by every word in that statement, by the conflicting emotions they send crashing through him. 

“We had a kid?” he manages to whisper at last. “I thought that was impossible with your--” He gestures vaguely at her. 

“With my enhancements,” she finishes for him. “It basically is. One in a billion.”

“Were we...trying?” he asks, still reeling. They haven’t talked much about having kids aside from saying they don’t want any, besides Groot. He still doesn’t think he does, but imagining a future where they _do_ have one isn’t unpleasant; not at all. 

Gamora shakes her head. “It was unintentional, but we wanted to keep her.” 

He smiles, picturing it. “Did she look like you?”

“More like a little green you,” she says, smiling too. “Very curly hair. Squirrel cheeks.”

“Chipmunk cheeks,” he corrects absently, smile fading as he considers the rest of what she’d said. “But I got sick?”

“Yes,” she says quietly, a few fresh tears falling. “There was an incident on a job, radiation that didn’t affect any of us...except you. It was slow--” 

She presses her lips together, seemingly unable to say any more, which is fine by him; he doesn’t need to hear any more. He can perfectly picture the slow decline, the gradual fade. 

“I'm sorry,” he breathes. “I won't--" 

Gamora smiles, sweet and so sad that it makes his heart ache. “That's exactly what you said in that future. That you wouldn't leave us. That we would figure it out. But we didn't.”

“Gamora,” he whispers, his throat impossibly tight again. There's nothing he can say to make this better and he knows it. He can't promise not to ever get sick, or even not to put himself in harm's way. That's not who they are, and they both know it. He can't ask her to do that either, much as he might want to now, after losing her. 

“I know,” she says tenderly, the look on her face soft and sad and so beautiful that it almost feels like a dream. “I have always known you were more susceptible to these things than I. Just as you know that I have many enemies.”

He nods, swallowing hard. “I love you.”

“There was another you might like to know about,” says Gamora. “We retired on Earth. You became a singer.”

He perks up. “Really? Was I famous?” 

She chuckles softly. “Locally, perhaps. You were not the biggest pebble star there was, but you loved it.” 

“Small town rockstar.” He grins. “I can live with that. I was good, right?” 

“The best singer I have ever heard,” she says indulgently, rubbing his side. She sounds a combination of amused, exasperated, and fond when she adds, “You dedicated every song to me. Every one. You took a break between every song just to remind everyone it was dedicated to me.” 

“As I should,” he says proudly. “What about the rest of you? Were you guys my band?” 

“Groot played with you occasionally,” she says. “But the rest of us were less...musically inclined. Drax tried to play the drums once and immediately broke them.” 

“That sounds about right.” He laughs, suddenly in a much better mood. “I like that one. I hope we get the retiring on the beach one, though.” 

“I’m not sure it works that way,” she says. 

He shrugs. “Maybe it does. I mean, think about it; now that you’ve told me this stuff, we can… I don’t know, take steps.” He’s sure as hell gonna watch out for radiation now. 

“I am not sure we will have any of those exact futures now,” says Gamora, sounding mostly relieved. 

To be fair, a lot of them sounded either horrible or heartbreaking or both, so it's not like he can really blame her. But he also doesn't understand how she can be so certain. 

Peter takes a deep breath. “How do you know?”

“Because--" She breaks off, swallows. “Because I was silver. In all of them. Every single one.”

“Oh.” He pauses, swallows, tries and fails not to let his heart start beating like crazy again. He's somehow managed to stop thinking about that for, like, five whole minutes, but now here it is again. “Is that--Why you asked Nebula to look into it? I mean, instead of--Instead of me?”

She shifts her hand to rest over his heart, as if trying to soothe its rhythm. “I know the lack of silver is worrying you. I didn’t want you to know how much it is concerning me too.” 

“I’m not—“ He stops himself short, realizing it’s pointless to deny his concern. “So it’s not because you...didn’t think I could?” 

“What?” She lifts her head to meet his gaze, looking bewildered. “Of course not. I know you could. But we are here, on your home planet—“ 

“I would have done it,” he says quickly, not sure why he feel so stupidly defensive. It’s not like he _wants_ to go on a mission to a bunch of people and places that would remind him of her loss. But the idea that she might not trust him to after all his failures, is no longer willing to ask him to do things because she thinks he can’t…it’s too much to bear. “I’d do anything you needed, Gamora. That’s—I’m your boyfriend. I want to do things for you.” 

“Peter,” she breathes. “I _know_ that. But I didn’t want that for you.” 

“Because you know I’m--fragile?” asks Peter, his stupid voice betraying him by wobbling stupidly. It’s like his body is determined to prove it _is_ fragile, even as he’s desperate to prove that it’s not. “More---susceptible?” He knows she won’t appreciate his echoing her earlier word choices, but he can’t help it. They both know she’s right.

“ _No,_ ” says Gamora, the vehemence in her tone surprising him. He knew she’d deny it, but he didn’t expect to believe her. Now, though...he kind of does.

“Then why?” he presses, though it’s obvious she doesn’t want to tell him, would just as soon move on from this painful line of questioning. “Please. I need to know.”

“Because--” She swallows hard, her throat working in the same heartbreaking way he’s seen so many times over the past few days. “Because I-- _I_ couldn’t go right now, Peter. I _couldn’t_ , pathetic as that may be. And I need you. I _need_ you here with me.”

“Oh, babe,” he says gently. “That’s not pathetic.”

She bites her lip, shakes her head. “It is at least selfish.” 

“No, it’s not,” he insists. “I need you, too. Not being by your side sounds horrible right now.”

She curls closer to him again, like something might try to rip them apart. Something’s already tried, though, and it succeeded only for a few days -- of his time, at least, and in this timeline. 

Actually, now that he thinks about it, in a lot of possible timelines. 

“Hey,” he says suddenly. “In those alternate futures you saw… I used the Stone to get you out in all of them, right?” 

“Yes,” she says slowly. “Well. As far as I know, in all of the ones where I made it. Which was most of them.” 

“So, just like what actually happened,” he says, “I used the Stone and it wanted to take my soul and you didn’t let it.” 

“I presume so, yes,” she says, confused and a little impatient. “Why?” 

“Because you were silver in all of them! So that--that means you have to be able to get it back! That means the Stone didn’t do it.” He tries to temper the excitement in his voice, in case he’s wrong, or there was something that happened in this scenario that didn’t happen in the ones she saw. But the odds seem to be in their favor. 

She tenses at that, surprising him. He'd thought she'd be happy with this revelation, or at least cautiously optimistic. 

Instead she shakes her head and bites her lip. “I don't know.”

“Why not?” he presses, his heart hammering, desperate now to believe it, as if that might somehow make it true. “Gamora, that's the only thing that makes sense!”

“But it _doesn't_ make sense,” she insists. “And don't forget, I saw the futures in a vision created by the Stones. Perhaps that part was a lie. A manipulation. Or perhaps something changed so that this timeline is different. It wasn't--I couldn't see inside of our thoughts. So I don't know what the exchange with the Stone was like.”

“Or,” he insists, “it could be something else! Why don't you want to consider that possibility?”

She presses her lips together into a thin, bloodless line. “Because I am not sure it's the better option. If it isn't because of the Stone, then--what? Have I somehow spontaneously lost the ability to view you as my partner? Has something about _you_ changed that is apparent to my body but not my conscious mind?”

He tenses too, panic seizing him at either of those possibilities. He glances at his body as if expecting to see some noticeable change, some kind of defect that means she can’t love him anymore. 

“I’m not saying that is the case,” Gamora says quickly. She rubs his chest over his heart. “Of course I view you as my partner. I love you. I want to be with you. And I don’t think you’ve changed. That’s why it has to be the Stone.”

“Okay.” He nods, trying to calm himself. The last thing she needs is for him to go into another panic right now, not when she’s finally stopped crying. He curses himself for bringing this up in the first place, since they’d actually seemed to be getting somewhere with her sharing the good futures and now he’s gone and made her tense again. 

But still, now that he’s started it… He can fix it. “Okay. So--in all the futures you saw, maybe you just saw the parts after we already fixed whatever the problem is! After we did whatever we needed to do with the Stone. Which still means it can be solved!” 

Gamora sighs again, some of the tension ebbing, though that leaves her looking more exhausted than he thinks he's ever seen her before. “Yes, I had considered that possibility as well. It seems a rather large coincidence but it's not as though I was able to process all of the details of what I was seeing.”

“You've considered it,” Peter echoes, because he can hear the doubt in her tone. She's considered it, but that's not all. “But?”

She shakes her head. “No but. It is a possibility that should be investigated. Which is why I asked Nebula to do it.”

“Oh.” Peter blinks, feeling stupid, but he still can't bring himself to just let this damn thing go and move on. It's too hard when there are still so many unknowns, so many things he has absolutely no control over. “Okay. But I still--I get why you didn't want me to go do it. But why didn't you even _tell_ me?”

“I have already told you why,” she says, sounding tired. 

“Well, tell me again,” he insists. There’s clearly some pieces he’s not putting together here. 

She turns her head, once against resting it sideways on his chest so she’s not looking at him. “I didn’t want you to worry any more than you already are. You have already suffered so much because of me. I wanted to take care of the problem without you having to suffer more.”

“Mora,” he says sadly. “All I want to do is help you. And aren’t we supposed to share this kind of thing with each other? You said you didn’t want me to keep _my_ problems from _you_.”

She makes a little frustrated noise, he’s assuming because she knows he’s right, but doesn’t say anything further.

“C’mon,” he cajoles, though as usual he’s half afraid to hear it. “Is there more?”

“I have already told you!” she repeats, sitting up and glaring at him -- or trying to; she mostly just looks anguished. “I am pathetic! If Nebula can’t find anything, if it can’t be fixed...I didn’t want you to leave me.”

“And _I_ told you that I'm not going anywhere!” Peter says desperately, willing his voice not to break. That won't do anything to convince her that he's the kind of stable she needs right now. “Baby, please. I swear.”

“You have told me that _nownow._ You had not told me then, when I made the request of Nebula. In fact, when I made the request, you had just accused me of pretending to love you out of pity. What was I supposed to do, Peter?”

He swallows hard, kicking himself for that reaction. If there's one thing he could go back and change...well, okay, it probably wouldn't be that, but still. 

“You believe that I believe you now though, right?” He clears his throat, knowing that he sounds like a pathetic kid. “Right?”

She sets her jaw. “I allowed you to hear my conversation with Nebula, didn't I?”

“Yeah,” he admits, trying to convince himself that means something. It _has_ to; she could easily have gone outside to take that call, but she didn’t. “But I need to hear you say it. I believe that you still love me, Gamora; do you believe _me_?” 

Her stubborn, determined expression wavers. He’s about to spin into a panic, afraid she’s going to tell him no, when she finally says, very quietly, as if she’s afraid to be too loud, “Yes. But I don’t understand how when there’s a piece of me missing. How can you love me when I’m not even whole?” 

“Sweetheart.” He sits up too, unable to stand even being inches away from her, and takes her in his arms again. She lets him, falling against him as if she’s too tired to hold herself up anymore. “Not being silver doesn’t mean you’re not whole and it doesn’t affect how I feel about you at all. I fell in love with you like, a day after we met, before I had any idea about the silver. I loved you for two months before I found out, and I loved you the same after, and I feel just as strongly now.”

“I knew,” she insists, her voice sounding impossibly small and young. “I knew, and it mattered. Without it--” She breaks off and shakes her head.

“Without it?” Peter prompts, giving her a moment. He combs his fingers through her hair again, has it separated into three sections before he even realizes what he’s doing. He hadn’t really intended to braid her hair, but the movement feels right, so he goes about it lazily, more for the familiar ritual than any kind of result. “Without it what, baby?”

Gamora takes a breath, closes her eyes and leans into his hands as he continues working with her hair. “Without it, I don’t know if there ever would have been an _us._ ”

“What?” he asks, heart accelerating again. It’s not like he’s unaware of the doubts she had at the beginning of their relationship, of how hard it was for her to allow herself this sort of attachment and intimacy. But he’s never heard her say it in these words, has never really considered the possibility that it might _not_ have happened.

“I didn’t think I could have--this,” she says carefully. “Or any of our lives together, really. In the beginning, I kept thinking that I should leave, take away the danger I brought on the rest of you. But then--then I was silver, and as much as I didn’t want to be at times, I had to admit there was a part of me that was compatible with this reality. That I could become the sort of person who was--who was a partner to you. And a mother to Groot. My silver meant that I could, and so I did.”

He opens his mouth to reply, then closes it again, not knowing quite what to say. His brain is a whole mess of jumbled up thoughts and panic. He tries to picture the possibility she’s talking about, a reality where she’d left, or stayed but never admitted her feelings for him. Of the two, the latter is infinitely preferable to one where she’s not in his life at all, but neither of them are really processing for him, aside from some irrational panic. He just cannot see it. 

“I’m really grateful to the silver,” he says eventually, already finished with a simple braid, “for giving you that confidence, but I don’t believe there’d be no us without it. Not for a second. You’re the bravest person I know, Gamora. You’d have conquered that fear eventually.” 

“Maybe,” she says weakly. He undoes her braid and starts again. “But what if it was too late?” 

“It could never have been too late,” he says, softly but with completely confidence. “I’d never give up on you. I love you more than anything, and I’m carrying this feeling with me my whole life no matter what.” 

“I wouldn’t want you to have to wait years for me to get over my fear,” she whispers. She’s crying again, but quieter, not the sobbing from before. 

“Well, I didn’t have to,” he points out. “And regardless of what _would_ have happened, what did happen is that there was and is an us, and you don’t need the silver to tell you that there can be anymore. You already have four years of being the best girlfriend in the universe to tell you that.” 

“The best girlfriend in the universe who asked you to kill me,” she says bitterly. “Who put you through unbelievable trauma.”

“Hey,” says Peter, putting on his mock-stern voice. “What did you tell me about beating myself up?”

Gamora sighs for what feels like the dozenth time, but there's a hint of her familiar stubbornness in it. “You do not deserve self-flagellation.”

“And neither does my girlfriend,” Peter insists. “Be nice to her or I'm gonna have to fight you.”

This time he's rewarded with the smallest hint of a smile. “I still don't like that you got hurt.”

“I know,” he says sadly, a memory stirring. “You know--one time...when my mom was really sick, toward the end, I got mad. I smashed up a bunch of stuff, told my grandpa I wished I could stop loving her so it wouldn't hurt when she went away. Do you know what he said?”

Gamora shakes her head, reaching out to touch his cheek. 

“He said sometimes hurting is a part of loving people.” Peter swallows, leaning into her hand. “A lot of what he said was bullshit, but I think that part was right.”

“That sounds wise,” she says, stroking his skin with her thumb. “Though I still don’t want you to hurt.”

“I don’t want you to hurt either,” he says. “But I know you have because of me before.”

“It is an incredibly small price to pay.” 

“I agree,” he says pointedly, making her mouth twist up in an adorably stubborn pout. 

Then, finally, she softens and leans her head back on his shoulder. “Okay. I believe you.” 

He smiles, so much tension releasing from his body that he practically slumps over onto her. He hugs her tightly, so focused on holding her and his own relief that he doesn’t notice the light in the window at first. Or at second. Or third. It’s not until there’s a whole group of dancing lights outside that he finally sees and sucks in a breath when he realizes what they are. 

“What?” Gamora says, instantly on alert at the change in him. She lifts her head from his shoulder, and before he can say anything, she sees the lights too and straightens up, reaching for her sword. 

“Nothing, babe, it’s fine,” he says quickly, stilling her arm. “I think they’re fireflies!” 

Unfortunately her alarm only grows at that, and she swings her legs over the side of the bed, peering cautiously but urgently at the window. “Will they set fire to this room? Should we summon Knight Rider?”

Peter blinks, equal parts confused by her reaction and distracted by the display outside the window, the tug of nostalgia painful and sweet behind his sternum. “What?”

“You said fire,” says Gamora, though her stance changes a bit as she takes him in, seems to realize that _he_ isn’t perceiving this as an emergency. “Where is the fire?”

“Oh. _Oh._ ” He narrowly resists the urge to actually smack himself in the forehead, instead getting to his feet and carefully resting both hands on her shoulders, running them down her arms until he feels her start to relax. “Babe, no. Not actual fire, I’m sorry I didn’t explain better. They’re little--little bugs, I guess? And they glow at night. I think it helps them find a mate?”

“Then why--”

“Cause fire glows too,” he says before she can ask. She’s still making a face at him. He decides not to tell her he’s also heard them called ‘lightning bugs.’ 

“I suppose that makes some sense,” she grumbles. 

He smiles because she’s cute, but he’s still distracted by the display out the window, feeling like he could reach out and somehow touch the past. 

She might realize that, because she turns in his arms and looks up at him curiously. “Do you want to go outside and look at them?” 

“No, no, it’s fine.” He waves his hand dismissively, but keeps his gaze out the window. 

Gamora shakes her head and pulls away. The loss of contact finally pulls him out of his daze. He’s about to apologize, though he’s not sure exactly what for, when he sees that she’s putting her shoes on. 

“Come on,” she says, coming back over to him and grabbing his hand. “Show me these firebugs.”

“Yes, ma’am,” he whispers, filled to the brim with affection, as well as disbelief that this is the woman who’s worried about being a good partner. 

Outside, the sky’s just gone fully dark, no moon or stars visible yet. The air smells earthy, and like freshly cut grass, almost as though they might be in the middle of some secret field, far away from the paved parking lot he knows is just a few feet away. It feels a bit like magic, the fireflies rising faster and faster around them. 

“ _Oh_ ,” Gamora breathes, and can’t even manage any other words, moving to wrap her arm around his waist, resting her head on his shoulder. 

Peter hugs her close, pressing a kiss to the top of her head. Reaching out carefully, he intercepts the path of one of the fireflies, letting it land on his fingers. It doesn’t seem to be in a hurry to take off again, crawling along his hand and blinking every few seconds. 

“Here,” he murmurs, holding it out to Gamora, watching it climb onto her. 

She watches it raptly, her smile as fragile and radiant as the glow. He thinks of stars, and Groot’s spores, and her silver skin -- lights in the darkness, not quite eternal.


	23. Chapter 23

His grandpa’s house looms large over him, tall and wide just like he remembers. Except it’s not quite like he remembers. There’s something distorted about it, almost cartoonish in its proportions, like he’s looking at it in a funhouse mirror. 

He doesn’t really have time to take it in before Gamora’s knocking on the front door, and his grandpa opens it immediately, looking just like he did when Peter was eight. He has to crane his neck to look at him, which shouldn’t be right; it’s like his grandpa’s grown with the house. 

Peter’s about to introduce himself, thinking perhaps his grandpa doesn’t recognize him and that’s why he’s glaring at him, but he doesn’t get the chance. 

“Where have you been?” he yells, angrier than Peter’s ever seen him. “She’s been waiting for you for thirty years!” 

“Wha--?” 

Behind his grandpa, he hears something impossible, something he hasn’t heard in all those thirty years: his mother’s voice, saying his name. 

He barrels past his grandpa, might go right through him for all he notices, and sees his mom in the hall, lying on her hospital bed like she was the day she died. She’s alive now, though, holding out her shaking hand towards him, saying, “Peter?” 

“Mom!” He runs towards her, but as soon as he goes to hug her she disappears into dust and he’s got his arms around nothing. 

He looks around frantically, hoping maybe she’s just moved, but then his heart stops when he sees Ego standing where his grandpa had been. He shakes his head, shrugs. “I had to.” 

Peter sits up in bed with a gasp. His head is throbbing and there are tears coating his cheeks. Blinking frantically, he looks around the room, struggling to make it out in the dim blots of light from outside the window. He's disoriented, can't figure out where he is besides the fact that it's small and unfamiliar. For a moment he has the horrible, panicked thought that he's back in the Compound, alone, that none of the past week has actually happened. 

“Peter,” comes Gamora's voice, so soft and gentle that for a moment it only feeds into the panic, into the nightmare. For a moment it's his mother's voice again, his name on her lips, sweet and sad and gone. 

Then her hand comes to rest on his arm and reality comes slamming back in -- the mine, the train car, the trip, the Stone. She's lying in bed beside him, beautiful and strong as ever, waiting to give him whatever he needs. 

“What’s wrong?” she asks quietly. It’s not quite sunrise yet so he can barely see her face in the dim lighting, just what comes from the streetlamp outside, but she looks both concerned and unsurprised. He wonders if she slept. 

He clears his throat, attempting to keep his voice level. “Nothing. I’m fine. Just a bad dream.”

“Tell me,” she says, holding her arm out for him. They’d fallen asleep spooning, but she’s turned around to face him now, coaxing him closer. He considers resisting for all of half a second, not wanting to burden her, but the desire to be comforted wins out and he curls into her, resting his head against her chest and hugging her from the side. 

“It was dumb,” he mumbles, sniffling. 

Her hand goes to his hair, carding her fingers through it. He wonders if that’s even a conscious thought for her anymore or if, like him with braiding hers, it’s so routine to her that she does it without even considering. “Tell me anyway.”

“I was at my--" he starts, but the words catch in his throat, which makes him question whether he wants to say them at all. It's not that he wants to keep things from her, or that he wants to be dishonest. It's just that he's pretty sure what she'll say if he tells her about his grandpa in the dream. 

She'll hear that he's dreamed of staying away for too long and feel like that's her fault, for allowing the roadtrip to be full of detours and stops on her behalf. It will hurt her. And worse yet, it might make her decide that they need to go to his house immediately, no more distractions. The dream has made him feel the opposite of ready for that. 

“Peter?” she prompts, her hand stilling in his hair for a moment. 

“I saw my mom,” he says finally. “And Ego. He said--he said he had to kill her. Again.” Peter breaks off, swallowing with effort, but his voice still comes out as barely a whisper on the next few words. “That's what Thanos said too.”

“On Titan?” she asks, though it sounds like she already knows. She probably does, since she apparently saw what happened there, but she always wants him to keep talking about his dreams, knows that helps him.

He nods. To his relief, she resumes stroking his hair, the motion soothing him enough to continue savagely, “Right before I pummeled his nutsack face in.”

She lets out a soft, strangled laugh, mixed with what sounds like the beginning of tears. “I’m so sorry he hurt you, Peter. Both of them.”   
“It’s not your fault,” he says quickly, giving her a little squeeze. She says _both_ , but he knows which one she blames herself for most. 

He feels her sigh, then press her lips to his temple. “What else happened in the dream?” 

He hesitates, debating whether to let the change of subject go. Deciding there’s really no point in jumping into that circular argument of blame again, he says, “That was it. Well—I tried to hug my mom. She was in the hospital bed, reaching for me, and I tried… But he got there first. She disappeared in my arms. Like dust.” 

“Like you did,” she breathes. “After Thanos--” She breaks off, shaking her head, because they both know what she’s about to say. 

“Yeah. But I--when it happened to me, it was a relief. This was--” He stops himself, wondering suddenly whether his mother might have been glad to die in the end, whether the end of the pain and fear and suffering was a relief for her too. One of the few new thoughts he’s had about his mother in literal years.

“It was a dream,” says Gamora, letting her hand move from his hair down to his back, continues stroking gently there. “Your mother is not suffering now. I promise. That is one of the few things that our mothers share.”

“I know,” he allows, and tries to relax against her, tries to let himself be comforted. The only problem is that his mind isn’t really focused on his mother, or even Ego, but on his grandfather in the dream. The rest of the nightmare was pure fiction, a cruel trick, he knows. But his grandfather...his grandfather is likely still here, and that anger, that sense of betrayal, may be as real as Gamora’s hand against his back.

This line of thinking is making him uncomfortable to the point of actual nausea, so he quickly decides that he’s got to divert it somehow; talking his dream out just isn’t gonna work today. 

“I’m okay now,” he says, in as casual a tone as possible. “Just a stupid dream.” 

“You don’t have to pretend to be okay,” Gamora says. She’s so gentle and caring and he feels like an asshole for lying but he just can’t handle this right now. 

“I’m not! Really. In fact, I’m wide awake,” he says, despite the fact that his eyes feel heavy and it’s not light out yet. “You wanna find something to do?”

She pulls away enough to look at him skeptically. “I thought we were going to head to your grandfather’s today?” 

“We are,” he says, because he can’t just come out and tell her he’s scared, he just...can’t. “I mean before that! We still gotta do road trip stuff, after all.”

She’s still giving him that look, he can tell even in the dim lighting. He keeps up a neutral expression and, eventually, she says, “All right. If you’re sure that’s what you want?”

“Sure I'm sure!” Peter says brightly, plastering on his most charming smile. He's vaguely aware that he's treating her like a mark and that's sickening at best, but the alternative is just...well, not an alternative because he can't accept it. 

“All right,” Gamora says again, sounding even more skeptical now. “Then what do you propose we do? Knight Rider isn't here for you to bicker with until you stumble on your next idea.”

Peter claps a hand over his heart, pretending to be wounded. “Gamora! I would never do anything of the sort!”

She just stares at him, expression utterly unamused. 

“Fine, fine,” he relents after a moment. “I've got something even better than Knight Rider, but don't tell him I said that!” 

He leans over the edge of the bed to snag his discarded pants, digging in the back pocket to retrieve the stack of brochures he got from the visitor center at the mine. “These!”

“A large stack of paper?” she deadpans. 

“They’re brochures!” he says, fanning them out so she can see the fronts. “They advertise all the cool stuff to do in the state.”

Her eyes widen when she takes them in. “That is a lot of brochures.”

“We don’t have to do them all!” he says quickly. “Just the cool ones! Like--here, a haunted wax museum!” She doesn’t look very impressed, so he continues. “Or we could see some more caverns? Or this parking lot that’s full of painted plastic animals. Or oooh, a nuclear waste adventure trail, that sounds fun. Or--check this out: the world’s largest ball of twine! We gotta see that.” 

Gamora just stares at him for a moment, like she’s unsure how to process what he’s saying. He keeps smiling and holding up the brochures until she finally says, “Are any of these...nearby?”

“Uh…” He flips over the ball of twine brochure to see the map on the back. “Well, this one is right next to where we went camping. So only like four hours!” 

“Peter,” she sighs. “You really want to go all the way back to where we just came from to see a ball of string?”

“Twine,” he corrects. “Though there is also a ball of string!” He holds up another brochure. 

“Is that any closer?” asks Gamora, though it’s very clear that she’s just humoring him.

“Uh…” Peter fumbles around on the nightstand until he finds one of the phones, then types in the address from the brochure. “Yeah! Only five hours!”

Gamora blinks. “That is one hour more than the twine, Peter.”

“Oh, is it?” he asks as casually as possible, running a hand through his hair. If they go directly to his grandpa’s, they’ll be there in a matter of hours. Maybe not even that long. And then--then he’ll know. He’ll know what damage the last thirty years have done, if he’s already lost the last person truly connected to his mother, to his home here. No way is he ready for it to happen that soon.

“Peter,” Gamora says warningly. “What is going on with you?”

“Nothing!” he insists. “Guess I’m just not really awake yet, you know, nightmare and stuff.” He grabs another brochure. “Hey! Look at this one! It’s right here in town, and it’s a whole Family Fun Center!”

She actually leans a bit closer at that, looking at the pictures on the brochure. “And what exactly is that?”

“A giant arcade!” he says, looking at the brochure again to be sure. “It’s got go karts and mini golf and bowling and a bunch of games!” 

She points to a picture that shows a large group of children in a ball pit, laughing like it’s the most fun they’ve ever had. “That sounds like it will be crowded. And full of children who will be very curious about an alien.” 

She’s got a point. “Okay, so not that one.” He chucks it to the side and picks up another. “How ‘bout this one? It’s in town too: a space museum!”

“Peter,” she says, in _that_ tone again. “We spend the majority of our time in space. Is there a reason you don’t want to get going to your grandfather’s?”

“No, no,” he says, totally cool, totally casual. “Just--it’s a road trip, you know? We’re supposed to stop and do stuff.”

She reaches for his hand, stills it where he’s shuffling through brochures again. “From what you have told me of road trips, the custom is to stop and do things that are on the way to your destination.” 

“Well the space museum would be!” says Peter, which he’s pretty sure is true. It at least can’t be too far out of the way if it’s in the same town. It’s not like Bonne Terre is huge.

“True,” says Gamora. “But you still haven’t told me the point.”

“Laughing at ancient Terran space tech?” he suggests, carefully slipping his hand out from under hers. If she touches him too much, he’s suddenly afraid that he’ll just break down, be completely unable to keep up the facade. He just needs one more diversion, just a little more time to prepare himself. 

This is a thing she wouldn’t understand, he thinks. It’s a discussion they’ve had many times over the past four years: Her certainty that she would be unwelcome on her homeworld, forever alienated by Thanos. How it’s so inaccessible to her now that it might as well be destroyed in its entirety. How that makes it difficult, sometimes, for her not to feel jealous of the relative ease with which he could return to Earth. How, much as she hates the emotion, she sometimes resents his decision to stay away.

“Peter,” she says again. Her impatience seems to increase with each time, and he steels himself. It might be time for a compromise. Loathe as he is to get them any closer to his grandfather’s house, he doesn’t see a way around it. 

“Okay,” he says, with an imitation of an easy smile. “I see your point. Here, let’s do--this.” He shows her the brochure for a different wax museum. “This one is in St. Louis. That’s the city right next to St. Charles. Not New York big,” he hastens to add. 

She takes the brochure, studying it skeptically. 

“The museum doesn’t sound like the most popular place,” he continues at her lack of enthusiasm. Not that he’s super enthusiastic about it himself, aside from the fact that it’ll keep them from his hometown a little longer. “And it shouldn’t be full of kids.”

“Okay,” she says at last, slowly, though she still doesn’t seem super enthused. “Let’s do that, then. Knight Rider should be happy.”

“Because he likes wax?” Peter guesses, confused. 

“Because we’re finally going to a city.”

* * *

Knight Rider is indeed happy about that, though he’s not as pleased with the choice of museum.

“St. Louis is an excellent destination,” he informs them as they leave Bonne Terre. It’s just barely light out. “It has many cultural, historical, and entertainment venues.” 

“Well geez, why don’t you marry it?” Peter mumbles. 

“I am a computer program,” says Knight Rider. “I do not believe there is any provision for me to legally wed.”

Peter rolls his eyes. “As if you could marry a city anyway, even if you were a human. That's the problem when you try to make me look stupid, Knight Rider. You make yourself look the stupidest.”

“On the contrary, Mr. Star-Lord,” says Knight Rider, his tone even more smug now. 

“How's that?” asks Peter, leaning back in the seat with his hands crossed behind his head, a pose he _definitely_ learned from Han Solo. 

“‘Stupidest’ is a superlative adjective,” says Knight Rider. “Appropriate only when comparing three or more nouns. So it is you who is stupid _er_ than I at the moment.”

“Nah,” says Peter, grinning. “At any given moment, you and I are both stupider than Gamora. So in failing to consider her, you just proved yourself the true stupid _est_.”

Gamora sighs, resting her head against the headrest in exasperation. She’s totally smiling, though. 

“We were not speaking of all three of us,” Knight Rider says, sounding defensive. “Merely--”

“Ah ah,” Peter says gleefully. “We never said who we were speaking of. It should be assumed that I mean everyone in the car. Not everything is just about you, Knight Rider, damn. I can’t believe you would forget the most amazing woman in the universe.”

“You and this car,” Gamora mutters. 

Knight Rider is silent for a moment, probably looking for a way out of this, before he finally says, “My apologies, Ms. Gamora.”

“Don’t worry about it,” she says. “Peter has a way of winning arguments through distractions and loopholes.”

Peter straightens up proudly. “Thank you.”

“My original point,” Knight Rider says, apparently deciding to change the subject away from his devastating loss, “was that there are many interesting things to do in St. Louis. Are you certain you want to go to this wax museum?”

“Positive,” Peter says. Gamora doesn’t argue one way or the other.

“You could see the gateway arch,” Knight Rider continues. “Or the zoo--”

“We’re sure, Knight Rider,” Peter says firmly. “We’re going to that wax museum and nothing is gonna change my mind.”

“Nothing?” Knight Rider asks, clearly sounding skeptical. “Because you must admit that you have been very prone to changing course on this trip.”

“I will admit no such thing,” says Peter, because now it’s a challenge. “I am a Guardian of the Galaxy, Knight Rider. My word is sacred.”

Beside him, Gamora snorts. Peter shoots her a mock-wounded look. “Gamora! Are you questioning my honor?”

“Not your honor,” she allows. “But perhaps your attention span.”

She’s got a point.

A silence falls for a few minutes after that, Knight Rider driving without comment. Either he’s lost interest in this particular challenge--which is a good sign, as far as the likelihood of Peter winning--or he’s biding his time. Peter thinks about asking for music, but he’s in the zone, concentrating on nothing but the wax museum, and he’s pretty sure there’s no rocking soundtrack for that. 

That lasts for...well, he loses track of how long, yawning as his mind drifts. He snaps back to attention when he sees a small sign coming up, one of the first they’ve seen in a while; there’s apparently not much to see or advertise on this road. This sign is old, wooden, and low to the ground. It might’ve even been hand-written. 

“Hey, Knight Rider,” he says a split second after reading it. “I’ve changed my mind.”

“Have you now?” the car drawls.

Gamora looks at him curiously and he points to the sign that says: _Hiking trail and swimming hole, turn left ahead_. 

“Oh!” she says with interest. 

“Better than a wax museum, right?” Peter says eagerly. 

“I’m not sure that’s much of a comparison,” Knight Rider says dryly. “Would you like to tell me where it is I am taking you now?”

“Turn left,” he says, pointing to the next place to turn. 

“What?” 

“Turn, now!” he says urgently, as they’re right next to it. Knight Rider obeys, turning so quickly that Peter slides sideways in his seat; he’d have rammed into Gamora if she hadn’t slid too.

The next thing he knows, he's got her hands at his back, righting him as the car levels out again. 

“Dude!” says Peter, shifting back to sit in his own seat. Normally he wouldn't mind being on top of Gamora, but these are decidedly irritating circumstances. 

“I simply did as you instructed,” says Knight Rider. “And I am a computer program, not a ‘dude.’”

Peter sighs. “Fine. Can you follow the signs to the swimming hole or do I have to keep directing you?”

“I am capable of navigating to the parking area,” says Knight Rider. “Unless of course you change your mind again.”

“Not gonna happen,” says Peter, meaning it this time for reasons other than spite. 

“Peter,” Gamora interrupts, touching his shoulder. She looks vaguely worried, which worries him. 

“Yeah, babe?”

“We don't have swimsuits with us.” She glances toward their bags in the back meaningfully. 

“Oh,” says Peter, relieved that it's such a minor problem. “Well that's okay, we've got our birthday suits!”

She furrows her brow, looks back at the bags again as if expecting to see something. “Our what?” 

“Birthday suits,” he repeats, then before she can get impatient, he elaborates, “It means naked. You know, because we’re born naked.” 

Her eyes widen. “I am not swimming in public in the nude,” she hisses. 

“We won’t be in public,” he says dismissively. “There’s not gonna be anyone here first thing in the morning. Look.” 

They’re pulling into what must be the parking area now, which is just a small, dirt pull-off with no marked spots, and also no other cars. In front of them is the beginning of a forest with sparse trees and what looks like the beginning of a walking trail. 

“Still,” she says firmly, sounding almost desperate. “I am not going to be naked outside.” 

“Okay, okay,” he says placatingly, not wanting her to get upset. “So…we’ll wear our underwear.” 

She shakes her head. “I will wear a tank top and my exercise shorts.” 

“That works,” he says, though he’s disappointed that there’s not gonna be any skinny dipping. Despite her hesitation now, he has distinct, awesome memories of swimming naked in the moonlight with Gamora. Then again, that planet was entirely devoid of sentient life forms. No possibility of intruders at all.

It isn’t that Gamora is--well, a prude, for lack of a better way of putting it. Far from it, actually. It’s just that her people view sex--and by extension, the more intimate parts of their bodies--as a sacred thing, reserved for...people who make them silver. Which, he realizes, is probably another reason she doesn’t want to show a lot of skin right now. Well, he can live with that. As long as he gets to see her enjoying the water, he’ll be just fine.

“There are no facilities here,” says Knight Rider. “So if you do not wish to be in the nude outdoors, you will need to change here.” Some kind of setting shifts, and the windows turn to a dark tint.

“Whoa,” says Peter, blinking. He has the momentary, bizarre thought that this makes him feel like he’s starring in a science fiction movie. As if he doesn’t live on a goddamn spaceship. “Thanks, bud. But hey, make sure your optic sensors are off too. Nobody gets to see my girl but me.”

Knight Rider makes a noise of disgust. “Believe me, Mr. Star-Lord. I would far prefer it if you would keep your intimate business _intimate._ ”

The car, on the other hand -- total prude. 

“You’re just jealous of my rockin’ bod,” Peter mutters. Knight Rider elects not to comment. 

“Would you like to change?” Gamora asks as she crawls half into the back seat, body over where the center console used to be, to dig around in the bag. 

“Nah,” he says, staring at her ass. “I’ll just swim in my undies.” 

“You should bring an extra pair then,” she says. “To change into after.”

“Or I could just go commando after.” 

She shakes her head, turning to shove a pair of his boxers at him. “You’re going to be uncomfortable if you do that.” 

“Yes, ma’am,” he mutters, but her caretaking makes him smile. 

She gets back into her seat after pulling out one of her athletic tank tops and a pair of the tiny shorts she sometimes exercises in that never fail to drive him crazy. 

He watches her pull her pants off with complete grace despite the tiny space, and for a second, just a second, he manages to forget the exact circumstances they’re in, the anxiety roiling around inside him; he’s just a guy, preparing to go for a swim with his girl. 

But then her fingers hesitate on the hem of her shirt, a blush dusting her cheeks. 

He should comfort her, he thinks immediately, should say something to make her believe that it doesn't matter, that he loves her just the same. But the words get caught in his throat, refuse to come out right. Because the truth is that it _does_ matter, because of what it's doing to her. Because of his fears. Because, even though he absolutely _does_ love her the same, regardless of her silver, the lack of it makes him fear that he's about to lose her again. 

So he can't come up with anything genuine to say, and he knows she'll just be more upset if she catches him trying to lie for her benefit. He's about to look away, about to make himself busy with something else so that he can pretend not to have noticed. But she looks up at him in that exact moment, catches his eye and all of his doubts. Then she squares her jaw, face twisting into the savage expression he often sees in the midst of battle, and pulls her shirt over her head, moving slowly and deliberately as she replaces it with her tank top. 

“I'm sorry,” Peter breathes, biting his lip. 

“What for?” she asks stiffly, pulling on her shorts almost aggressively.

He holds in a sigh. Apparently that’s how she wants to play this and hey, ignoring problems and pretending everything is fine is his specialty. 

“For forgetting to bring bathing suits,” he says with fake cheerfulness. “And that Knight Rider can’t come with us.” 

“Although I am equipped for water travel, I have no great wish to experience it in a _hole_.” 

“Wait, you can drive on water?” Peter asks, thoroughly sidetracked. 

“If necessary—“ 

“It’s totally necessary, that’s awesome!” 

“Peter,” Gamora says impatiently. She’s gotten her shoes back on and is waiting with her arms crossed, something in her face still distressingly tense. 

“To be continued,” he tells Knight Rider, patting his dash. 

“I look forward to it,” he says dryly before the doors open and the engine shuts off. 

“C’mon, this’ll be fun!” Peter says, injecting more of that determined cheeriness into his voice. He marches over to her side of the car and holds out his arm gallantly. “We’ll finally get to go swimming on Earth!” 

“In a hole, apparently,” says Gamora, ignoring his arm as she sets off on the path. There’s danger in her tone--it could _almost_ be a joke, except that it isn’t. It’s a test, not quite bait. If he laughs or responds flippantly, she’ll be hurt--or hurt worse than he’s already managed. 

He swallows, willing himself not to go down the guilt and shame spiral. That will only make things worse, make him less capable of getting their good day back on track. 

Instead he takes a deep breath and continues aiming his tone at cheerfulness. He might not be able to laugh at her right now, but that doesn’t mean he can’t still _make_ her laugh. “You think that’s the real reason Knight Rider didn’t want to join us? ‘Cause he’s too much of a prude to go in the Earth’s hole?” 

“Peter,” she sighs, shaking her head.

“That’s totally it,” he persists. “He got weirded out just from me kissing your forehead!” 

She makes a vague noise and otherwise ignores him; apparently she’s not in the mood to laugh or commiserate over Knight Rider’s foibles. What she _is_ in the mood to do is march ahead along the trail at a pace that’s hard for him to keep up with. 

His knees, which had been fine yesterday, are giving him trouble today because they’re finally scabbing over, making the skin pull so tight that it’s just this side of painful when he bends them. He’s just debating calling for her to wait up, as embarrassing as it is that he needs her to do that, when she suddenly stops. 

“Is this it?” she calls, pointing to something off to the side that he can’t see because of the way the trail curves. 

It’s not a great sign that she’s not sure, he thinks as he hurries to catch up with her. He’s preparing himself to be disappointed, to need to come up with a way to salvage this, but then he actually sees the “hole.” 

“Huh,” he says, not faking the happiness in his tone this time. “I guess it is.”

It’s small, could probably fit inside the captain’s quarters of the Quadrant, but it’s pretty, and the water is nice and clear. It’s being fed by a stream coming from farther up the hill, and there’s a few rocks positioned at the place where it begins to widen in a way that gives it a sort of mini-waterfall. 

Peter glances back and forth between Gamora and the water a few times. He can't quite read the expression on her face--pleased, for sure, but also still tense and a little bit sad. Wistful, maybe, though that makes no sense, because she can have absolutely anything she wants and then some. He’ll make sure of it...as long as he manages to avoid getting in his own way. 

“Good, right?” asks Peter, keeping his tone tentative. 

She nods. “It's good. Though not what I would name a ‘hole.’”

He nods. “I think it just means, like, smaller than a lake.”

“It's smaller than our bathtub,” she points out, and Peter has to concede that she's not wrong on that one. But to fair, they have a really big bathtub. 

“True. You wanna get in the water, though?” It's early, but the morning is warm, and the path has helped work up enough of a sweat that it looks appealing. 

Gamora hesitates, though. “You are certain it's safe? Not some sort of trap? The signs hardly looked official.”

“Sure I’m sure!” he says. “It’s just a rural area out here, they probably make their own signs. Plus, I bet they don’t want a _ton_ of people coming here. It can’t exactly support a crowd. Remember that little hot spring I took you to on Seynope? Where there was no one else around?”

“Yes,” she says, and if he’s not mistaken that’s a smile tugging at her lips. It’s hard _not_ to smile at that memory. She hadn’t been so hesitant to swim in her birthday suit that day. 

“I only knew about it cause I traded info with one of the shopkeepers,” he explains. “That was way less official than this, and that was safe.”

“I suppose,” she says, not sounding quite convinced. Guilt gnaws at him because her reluctance is probably because of her mood, which is his fault. But he’s determined for her to enjoy this. 

He strips off his shirt and tosses it onto a tree branch. “Look, I’ll test it to make sure it’s safe.”

“You will not,” she says firmly, surprising him. She’s glaring at him, but not in the way that means she’s mad -- or at least, not completely in that way -- but in the way she does when she’s worried about him because she thinks he’s about to do something dumb. “I’ll test it.”

_Here we go_ , he thinks, grinning. He can’t tease her when she’s in this mood, or be too flippant, but he can work with her competitiveness. “Not if I get there first!” 

Then, before he can even unzip his pants, Gamora has her boots pulled off and she’s doing a perfect dive into the center of the swimming hole, deep enough that she’s completely submerged, before doing a flip underwater and popping her head up. 

For a moment all he can do is stare at her, struck by how beautiful she is, flushed from the hike, wet hair cascading down her shoulders. It makes his heart ache and his throat get tight, tears springing to his eyes. It’s overwhelming how much he loves her, how being with her still feels like a dream in so many ways. How, even if things aren’t perfect, they get to have another chance. 

“Peter?” asks Gamora, her expression turning to concern.

He sniffs, wiping his eyes quickly. “How is it?”

“Excellent,” says Gamora, tucking her hair behind her ears and swimming closer to the side. She looks far more relaxed now, happy to be in the water, to be here with him, even if he is an idiot sometimes. “Are you going to join me or did you just come to watch?”

“Oh, I’m coming,” says Peter. He quickly finishes stripping down to his boxers, then takes his own running start. There’s no way he’s going to achieve anything nearly as graceful as Gamora’s dive, so he doesn’t try, instead belly flopping into the water.

Immediately he’s struck by the freezing temperature, like jumping into a bowl of ice water. He has a moment of panic thinking of Gamora, of her shivering, of _I hate the cold._ But then he blinks the water out of his eyes and sees her laughing, clearly filled with mirth at the fact that she’s managed to trick him into jumping in unaware.

“Gamora!” he says with mock-outrage. “It’s freezing!”

“Is it?” she asks innocently, smirking. 

He’s so pleased by her improving mood that he almost forgets how cold it is. Almost. He stays in the deep part so he’s submerged up to his neck, the parts of his body that are exposed to the air feeling the cold a lot more. 

“You know it is,” he accuses. “And you let me jump in anyway!”

She shrugs, swimming casually backwards. “I am a cold, cold woman.”

“I think you’re the warmest woman there is,” Peter says, keeping his tone light, though he’s unwilling to even let her joke about that right now. “And I think you should share some of that warmth with me!” 

He does a little jump across the water towards her and she jerks out of the way, her laugh loud and free. He laughs too, forgetting about the cold and the tension of just a few minutes ago, swimming after her in the tiny pool. It’s so small that he could probably reach out and touch her from any point in it, but he’s having much more fun swimming around in circles after her. 

“Here, have this warmth,” Gamora taunts, before turning around suddenly and sweeping her arm across the water, sending a wave at his face. 

Peter outright _shrieks_ , sputtering at the cold and the shock. He should have expected it, really. It's hardly the first time she's done something like this, as competitive in her teasing as she is in everything else. But it's been so long since he's seen her anything approaching carefree that he's almost managed to forget. 

“Oh,” he manages, shaking his head like a wet dog so that water flies off his hair. “Is that what that was? Because it kinda felt like the opposite.”

She gives him her sweetest smile, not reacting at all to the spray from his hair. “I don't know. Perhaps I don't know what warmth is. Perhaps you should give me a demonstration.”

He could splash her again. He could grab her and dunk her or wrestle her in the water. It's practically a challenge to do exactly that. 

“Okay,” he breathes, then leans in and kisses her instead. 

She goes still, making a surprised noise against his lips. He’s both proud that he’s managed to surprise her and concerned that he’s gone too far, that maybe this is too much when he’s just upset her not half an hour ago.

A second later, though, she softens, wrapping her arms around his neck and kissing him back enthusiastically. 

He’d intended it to be a brief, fairly innocent kiss, but as usual he gets caught up in her lips, in pulling her body as close as he can, in carding his fingers into her hair. It’s ecstasy; blissful, distracting ecstasy, especially when her legs join the party and wrap around his hips, hitching herself up and somehow pressing against him even more. 

Suddenly he’s not cold anymore. 

He stays warm even when they have to break the kiss to breathe; the way she’s looking at him could set him on fire. 

“Hi,” he says breathlessly, like an idiot. 

“Hi,” she says fondly, like he’s her idiot. Then she kisses him again, dragging a hand through his hair in a way that makes him moan and debate whether breathing is really worth it when it means he’d have to not be kissing her. 

Gamora laughs softly against his lips, which does break the kiss a little. It's worth it, though, to hear her making such a happy sound. He thinks for a moment that her happiness could keep him alive all on its own, like he might not even need air, or food, or water. 

Eventually, Gamora makes the choice for him, abandoning his lips to trail little kisses across his cheek, his jaw, and finally down to his neck and shoulder. Peter closes his eyes and lets his head fall to the side, giving her better access. His fingers find their way to her hair, curling through the ends of it under the water, silk teased by the light current from the adjoining stream. 

He jumps a bit when she moves her lips upward again, kissing the sensitive spot behind his ear. Immediately he feels goosebumps erupting all over, opens his eyes to find Gamora smiling with a mix of triumph and love as she brings one hand down to run along his arm like she's admiring her work. 

“This is good warmth sharing,” he murmurs. 

“Really?” she breathes, still running her fingers over the goosebumps on his arm. “You still seem a little cold.”

“Well, maybe I could use a little more.” He grins and she does too, and they kiss through it as best as they can. It feels like all the light and warmth in the universe is flowing through them. 

For a moment, it’s like none of the terrible things from the past few weeks ever happened. They could be back on Berhert, four years ago, when they’d gone back to fix the Milano. They’d snuck off in the middle of the night, the many moons of the planet lighting their way through the woods to a stream he’d spotted earlier. Their relationship was just beginning then, everything new but still imbued with the undercurrent of recent tragedy. 

It almost feels like that now, almost like they’re new again. He runs his hands over her back like he’s exploring for the first time, kisses her neck like he doesn’t have all her sensitive spots memorized, and she does the same, probably feeling this too. Their lips meet again and he loses himself, yet feels more like himself than at any point since he’d watched her disappear on Knowhere. 

Their relationship was forged in a fire of tragedy and heartache and hope; they can rebuild in that fire too.


	24. Chapter 24

Peter has mixed feelings about being back in a hotel already. 

Mostly he’s relieved that they haven’t made it much closer to St. Charles, that he’s got at least another afternoon and night before getting on the road again. A temporary reprieve from the unknowns waiting at his grandfather’s house. So that’s definitely a good thing.

He’s also just gotten out of a shower he shared with Gamora, so that’s good as well. He lets his gaze settle on her bare ass as she dries her hair in front of the mirror, the heat of the blow dryer intensifying the vaguely floral scent that always clings to her skin. _Very_ good, he decides. 

The only downside to this latest detour was having to admit to Knight Rider that he’d changed his mind about the wax museum yet again. Making out with Gamora--and the fact that she _wants_ that enough to have suggested going somewhere private--is way more important than winning an argument with a car, of course. But still. It’s a matter of pride.

Then Gamora bends over to put the dryer down and all thoughts of Knight Rider and wax museums fly from his mind. 

“Your hair looks beautiful,” he murmurs, sidling up behind her. He wraps his arms around her waist and hooks his chin over her shoulder. 

She offers him a shy smile in the mirror. “Thank you.” Her hands rest over his, but her smile fades when she looks at them and the distinctly non-silver skin below them. 

Despite how enthusiastic she’d been when they made out in the swimming hole -- and the car, despite Knight Rider’s protests, and against the door of the hotel room, and in the shower -- her silver has still been a no-show. Not that he was really expecting a little swimming and a lot of making out to make it magically reappear, but he can’t pretend he didn’t have that hope in the back of his mind. He’s guessing Gamora might have too. 

“All of you is beautiful,” he says, kissing her shoulder. 

“Still broken, though,” she says softly. She breaks the eye contact she’s been holding in the mirror, but at least she doesn’t pull away from him.

“Perfect,” he insists, though he’s sure she doesn’t believe him. There’s nothing else he can say, though, nothing he can do to convince her but to stay, to keep showing both of them that it doesn’t change anything about the way they love each other.

Peter sweeps her hair over one shoulder and ducks forward to kiss the other, her skin still warm and flushed from the shower under his lips. He focuses on the slope of her shoulder first, then moves upward to the curve where it meets her neck, then the sensitive spot between her earlobe and her jaw. He knows that she loves being touched there, that it’s one of the places she’s exquisitely sensitive without any influence of her cybernetics at all. 

Right now she’s still just tense, though, and showing no signs of relaxing even as he tries to make her feel at-ease.

Exhaling a breath that isn’t quite a sigh, he lets his hands fall to his sides and takes a step back so that he can talk to her without touching her. “Wanna tell me what’s on your mind, babe?”

“Nothing,” she says too quickly. She spins around to face him for real instead of in the mirror, a determined look on her face. Her arms are crossed over her chest, though, and he can _feel_ her tension just as much as when he was actually touching her. 

“Hey,” he says gently. “If you changed your mind, that’s fine, Mora, just tell me.” 

“No, no.” She makes a frustrated noise, but he thinks it’s frustration with herself. “It’s not--I didn’t. I want this.” 

She takes a step closer, closing the gap he’d made between them, and uncrosses her arms. She’s still stiff but it’s clearly an intentional gesture, opening herself up, so to speak. 

He takes the invitation and and tentatively reaches for her hand, taking it in his. “Then what’s wrong?” 

She looks down at their hands, watches as he rubs the back of hers with his thumb. “I am just… Considering what happened last time--” 

She cuts herself off, shrugs mock-casually. He wills himself not to get defensive, knowing that would do nothing to help her relax. It makes sense that his freak out the last time they tried to have sex would be on her mind, make her unsure. 

“That was different,” he assures her as calmly as he can; he’s a little worried about it himself. “We hadn’t talked about it yet. I believe you love me.” 

“You still have fears,” says Gamora, though it’s not accusatory, just sad and tired. “I know you do, because I do too.”

“I--” He starts to deny it automatically, not because he wants to lie to her but because he so desperately wants it to be true, wants to be able to comfort her somehow, to take away all of the uncertainty. “Okay, yeah. I do. I’m scared that I’ll fail you again. Or that I’ll lose you. Or that--that my idiot dick won’t cooperate again and then you’ll feel bad and...it’ll just be _bad_.”

She sighs. “And I am worried that you won’t want me if I’m not silver. I know you’ve said that you do, but if your body performs otherwise…”

“That would _not_ be your fault,” he insists, already feeling a twinge of guilt at the fact that she even has to worry about it.

“But it would,” she insists. “You have never once had a problem until…” She breaks off, gesturing to her abdomen.

“Well not with _that_ ,” says Peter, shrugging. He’s had plenty of other awkward, embarrassing things happen during sex in four years, though. “But hey, if you’re not ready--”

Her face falls immediately at that. “ _No._ I _want_ this. It’s been _so long_ , Peter.”

He curses himself mentally, having managed to forget yet again that her sense of the time it’s been is different from his. 

“This has always been so easy for us,” she says sadly, before he can say anything else.

“Hey,” says Peter, squeezing her hand lightly. “Not _always._ ” She raises a questioning eyebrow and he continues, “It wasn’t as easy in the beginning. Remember when we were first together? We were both so nervous.” 

“Yes,” she admits. “Because I was afraid of disappointing you. And because I’d never--” She gestures to her abdomen. 

“I was afraid of disappointing you too.” Not unlike he is now, really. “And I’d never felt this way about anyone before you. I was so afraid I’d fail you.” 

“So--what, then?” she asks. “Are you saying we’re starting at the beginning again?”

“Maybe,” he says, trying to sound positive. “Not totally. I just mean we can take it slow. Like we did then. We’ll do as much or as little as you want, no pressure, just--figuring it out.” 

She’s quiet for a beat, looking at him almost like she’s sizing him up. He decides not to point out that that is _also_ quite a bit like the beginning, when she was unsure, half-afraid that she couldn’t or shouldn’t be able to have this good thing after a lifetime of misery. 

“We,” she says eventually, squeezing his hand back. “As much as _we_ want.” 

“We,” he agrees immediately, so happy with this progress that it takes real effort not to break into a dance, or pull her in for a kiss. That can come later. “And I will have a real talking-to with my dick if it doesn’t cooperate this time.”

He bites his lip, suddenly afraid that joke was ill-timed, but thankfully Gamora smiles and actually laughs, finally relaxing. 

“Right?” says Peter, delighted. For all that he was uncertain before, now he’s determined to play this for all it’s worth. “My dick is a real dick sometimes.” He gestures to his crotch, then shakes his head. 

Gamora actually snorts at that, though softly. “Peter.”

“An asshole,” he continues. “An asshole dick. Although, thank god it’s not actually _on_ my ass. That would just be weird, though I know my ass is irresisti--”

“ _Peter,_ ” she groans, silencing him with a hand over his mouth.

“What?” he says innocently. Or tries to say, more like. It pretty much comes out as ‘ _mmmf?_ ’ because of her hand.

“You are ridiculous,” she says warmly, leaning in and replacing her hand with her lips. 

It’s a brief kiss, but purposeful, and it definitely gets the heat going again.

“Bed?” he suggests, tugging her hand in that direction.

“Bed,” she agrees, but shifts so that she’s leading him instead. When he gets to the point where the backs of his knees hit the edge of the mattress, she orders “lose your towel,” and waits only long enough for him to do that before giving him a gentle push. Peter falls back dramatically, making a sound effect as he goes.

“You are ridiculous,” she repeats. Her smile is decidedly predatory as she looks him up and down. He feels himself flush even before she says, “But you’re gorgeous.” 

He swallows, squirms with anticipation and pride and more anticipation as she slowly climbs onto the bed and leans over him. “I was about to say the same thing. Minus the ridiculous part. Although, you know, you do have your moments--”

She silences him with a quiet “Shh,” then plants her hands on the mattress next to his head and kisses him before he can even think about continuing that sentence. The only noise he makes is a little moan of surprise against her lips, then another, rougher moan when she deepens the kiss. 

He reaches up tentatively with one hand, cupping her face, and leaves the other firmly on the mattress even though he’s dying to touch her, to run his hands all over her, then follow his hands with his lips. He’s taking his cues from her, though, and while she’s kissing him breathless, she’s also holding her body above his, barely touching him except for their lips. So he keeps his hands mostly to himself for now. 

Considering her body language means considering his own body, which unfortunately means checking in with his dumb dick. It’s not hard yet, but definitely stirring. He knows he shouldn’t think too, well… _hard_ about that or he’s going to get worried again and throw himself out of the moment.

“You all right?” asks Gamora, pulling back to study his face. 

Peter sighs--too late, obviously, to hide his concerns from her entirely. Then again, he wants her to be honest, wants her to be open with him. Maybe he should try the same. “Yeah, just...I wanna make this good for you.”

She smiles, touching his cheek. “You will. You always do.” Her eyes flick downward, then back up to meet his gaze again, her face flushing. “And honestly, I will take just about anything you want to give me right now.”

“Hey…” He reaches up to brush his fingers along her jaw, feeling the heat of her blush. “You said there weren’t any other people in the Stone. But did you...could you...touch yourself?”

He winces as soon as he says it. She opens her mouth as if she’s going to respond, then just looks at him incredulously, like she can’t believe the words that have just come out of his mouth. 

For a second he’s sure that he’s completely killed the mood and now she’s never going to want him to touch her again. That Stone is the last thing she needs to be thinking about right now, especially considering her fears about the silver, and now he’s gone and brought it up like a dumbass. 

His fingers twitch against her cheek and he’s about to pull them away and apologize when she surprises him again by laughing. It’s a short, rueful laugh, but there’s genuine humor in it. 

“Peter, oh my god,” she says, shaking her head. She shifts, sitting on his stomach instead of holding herself above him -- which is helping his dick along, he notes, before forcing his thoughts away from that because they’re going to have a Serious Discussion here. 

“What?” he asks innocently. Now that he knows she’s not upset, he continues, “You were there by yourself for...a while. It would make sense if you did.” 

“Well, I didn’t,” she sighs. She’s not laughing anymore, but she’s not tense again either. “I tried once, but it was too… It wasn’t right. It just made it all feel worse. More lonely.” 

Peter nods, imagining it, picturing himself in her place. He can only imagine how terrible it would feel, being alone, knowing that he'd never get to have that kind of intimacy with her again. It isn't until he sees the look of concern on her face that he realizes tears have sprung up in his eyes. 

“I'm okay,” he says quickly, swiping at his eyes and sniffling. “I'm okay, I just--" He shakes his head, realizing exactly what it is. “I know what you mean. It's why I've been having trouble, I think?”

She looks distressed immediately, but she can't quite seem to come up with words. Peter reaches up and touches her cheek before she can, running the pad of his thumb very lightly across her lower lip. 

“Not because I don't believe you love me,” he promises quickly. “Just--I _lost_ you. I lost you and I still think about it happening again.”

“I am having that trouble as well,” she says sadly. She kisses his thumb where it rests over her lip and covers his wrist delicately with her hand, carressing and holding it in place. “It seems too good to be true that I have you back.” 

“I know,” he says, because he feels that way too. “But we are here. We’re together. We have to focus on that.”

“How?” she breathes. Her tone is practically begging, like she’s desperate for him to have an actual solution, and dammit if that’s what she needs then that’s what she’s gonna get. He may not have had a solid plan when he began speaking, but hey, he can wing it with the best of them. 

He moves his thumb to her cheek again, tracing along the scars there. She’d hidden these at first, he remembers. Or she’d tried to, back when they first met; she put makeup over them to blend them in with the rest of her skin, though of course they were always visible. It wasn’t until a few weeks after they’d formed the team that she’d gotten comfortable enough to stop covering them, to allow herself to be more open. 

“You remember what we did before?” he asks, taking his inspiration from that memory, from thinking about how difficult it used to be for her to relax or open up at all. 

She furrows her brow, though, looking vaguely confused. “You are going to have to be more specific than that, Peter.”

“Oh,” he says quickly, because now it’s clear that she isn’t reading his mind, because of course she isn’t. Which is fine. He can use his words, probably, even if he has the most beautiful woman in the galaxy sitting naked on top of him. “You know, our--first time. When we were afraid of disappointing each other.”

“Oh,” she echoes. “You watched me touch myself then. And you did the same for me.”

He nods, ghosting his thumb across the curve of her smile. “Yeah, and it was _awesome._ So...you wanna try that now?”

She’s quiet for a beat, apparently considering. While she ponders, her other hand is tracing a very distracting pattern along his collarbone, letting the blunt edge of her nail drag against him. He’s positive she knows how good that feels. 

“Okay,” she breathes. “Yes. But I want you to touch me too -- if you want to, I mean.” 

“Babe, are you kidding me?” He strokes his hands down her arms, her sides, to her hips. “I love touching you. I always wanna touch you.” 

To prove it, he uses his hands to flip them over so she’s on her back, her legs wrapped loosely around his hips. She offers him a little smile, somewhere between affectionate and shy, and he can’t resist leaning down to kiss her, not unlike she’d done to him mere minutes ago. 

He loses sight of the goal, getting caught up in the kiss, in her hands running through his hair. When they break for air, though, he sees the flush dusting her cheeks, the uncertainty still in her eyes, the way she bites her lip when she looks up at him, and he remembers. 

He’s just rolled them over, he knows, and it’s not like this is a new position for them. But suddenly it feels all wrong, like he’s about to be looming over her, asking her to be vulnerable for him while protecting himself from doing the same. 

“C’mere,” he breathes, rolling off of her and settling against the pillows, then holding out an arm.

Gamora looks uncertain for another moment, then rolls over and drapes herself across his lap, back of her head resting against his chest. 

“Exactly,” he soothes, kissing the top of her head and running his hands down her arms, then back up along her sides. He’s sure his heartbeat must sound thunderous to her at this distance, and he hopes the arousal in it is reassuring to her.

“Okay,” she says softly, mostly to herself. She sucks in a breath, blows it out, and then tentatively runs a hand down her abdomen, like she might be afraid of breaking herself.

“I gotcha,” Peter says softly, feeling an overwhelming need to protect her, to care for her.

She nods, but her hand is just brushing against the skin of her abdomen, basically twitching against it. He wonders if she’s thinking of the Stone again, of her fears about the warm silver that usually glows where her hand is resting. Or perhaps she’s still feeling self-conscious about this being the first time she’s done this in what feels like forever to her. 

No matter what’s holding her back, he’s going to find a way to help her. 

“What if you start here?” He lays his hand tentatively over hers, and she allows him to move it slowly up her body. 

She’d told him before, the first time they’d done this, that she never made a big production out of it, only ever did it to _scratch the itch_ so to speak; it was only ever perfunctory to her, taking care of business. But this isn’t about taking care of business. This is about making her feel good, and comfortable again. 

He stops their hands just below her breasts. He doesn’t take his hand off hers but he does relax it so he’s no longer controlling the movements, wanting her to decide this herself. 

Her nipples are extremely sensitive, he knows, a combination of natural anatomy and enhanced senses. She loves when he focuses on them, but she rarely does it herself, having previously considered even the time to explore her own body this way a luxury too much to risk. 

She nods once, resolutely, and circles one of them with a fingertip, roughly approximating the movements he usually makes, though nowhere near as slowly or tenderly. Still, her nipple hardens obediently and she shivers, the rest of her body starting to get with the program. Peter watches in rapt silence as she continues that for a few seconds before switching to the other side. 

She still looks lost, though, going through the motions with moments of success, but not truly losing herself in the enjoyment of it the way they both want to. 

Sighing, she lets her hand fall back to her abdomen. “How about _you_ start there?”

“My pleasure,” he says sincerely. He kisses the top of her head and cups her breasts in his hands, feeling her shudder again in response. A good sign. 

He decides to tease her first because she clearly needs to be eased into this. She’s still tense and he’s worried she may be too preoccupied with her fears and insecurities to actually enjoy this. He does his best to shake those thoughts, though. She’s said she wanted this, several times. And her body may not be totally relaxed, but her nipples are hard, there’s a flush to her cheeks, her breath has quickened. He needs to trust her. And help her. 

He traces his thumbs around her nipples, not quite touching them, enjoying the way it makes her squirm against him. He shifts under her a bit so he can duck his head and kiss the shell of her ear, then down to the side of her neck. The hand on her abdomen strays a lower, almost as if she’s doing it without thinking, like she can’t help it. 

“Go on,” he murmurs encouragingly. 

“ _You_ go on,” she says in what would sound more like a command if she wasn’t so breathless. 

Peter laughs warmly. “Are we competing now?”

She arches an eyebrow, and he can practically _feel_ her competitiveness perking up. “I don’t know. What would the contest be?” She shivers harder as he sweeps his thumbs over both nipples simultaneously.

“Hmmm,” he murmurs, pretending to think very hard about it. “Who can give my girl more pleasure. Me or her? It’s very suspenseful because she usually wins at everything, but _I_ am an expert at making her feel good. Who will win?” He lowers his voice into a conspiratorial stage whisper. “Her, either way.”

Gamora snorts, shaking her head at him. She’s clearly aware of how ridiculous this is, yet constitutionally incapable of turning down a competition. “Then I will double win.” 

“Oooh,” Peter croons. “Them’s fightin’ words.”

He swipes his thumbs over nipples again, watching as her hips jump. Finally she moves her hand down with more purpose, letting her legs fall further open as she gets comfortable.

“Good,” he murmurs to encourage her, pressing tiny kisses to the skin under her ear. He watches, enthralled, as her hand reaches its destination. When her fingers finally brush against her clit, he rewards her with a light pinch to one of her nipples at the same time.

She cries out, arching against him in a way that makes him grunt. 

“Fuck, Peter,” she pants, instantly touching herself more firmly. “More.” 

He obeys, circling his thumbs over and around her nipples continuously, spurred on by her answering moan. She’s so beautiful in her pleasure; mouth partially open, a flush to her cheeks, chest rising and falling rapidly. She’s squirming against him, not quite writhing yet, but it’s enough to drive him crazy. It’s all he can do not to rub up against her back. He’s gotta remind himself that this is for her. Plus, it would be pretty embarrassing if he made himself lose it like that. 

“Does this mean I’m winning?” he asks breathlessly, though he knows the combination of sensations is what’s making her react like this. 

“Never,” she grits out, sinking further down in his lap, which just _happens_ to put more friction against his dick as she moves. It’s possibly the most _Gamora_ thing he’s seen her do in the past week, simultaneously proclaiming her superiority and teasing him with every inch of her body.

He can’t help the laugh of pure joy that bubbles up in his throat at seeing her like this, even knowing what it’s taken to get her to this point. Plus, he’s _definitely_ not having any trouble getting his dick interested now, which is as much a relief as it is suddenly uncomfortable. He allows himself to shift his hips just a little, his erection brushing the small of her back and drawing a deep groan from the back of his throat.

“Now who’s winning?” she taunts, rolling her head back onto his shoulder as she presses her thumb against her clit. Then she shifts her hand lower, slipping a finger into herself with another soft, needy sound.

“Me,” Peter breathes, his mouth suddenly dry as a bone.

“I — _fuck_ — always win,” she pants, breaking off to curse when he rolls both of her nipples between his fingers. When he does it again she _whimpers_ and adds another finger, rocking her hips up to meet them. 

If this is what losing is like, he is more than happy to lose. 

“You always win,” he whispers seductively, lips next to her ear. She lets out a pleased moan, moving her fingers faster. 

He continues paying attention to her breasts, alternating between light and firm touches. Her body is being very distracting right now, but he’s well-versed in the art of pleasing her even as all coherent thoughts fly from his head, driven out by what her hand is doing, the way her body is reacting, the way her expression tenses and relaxes. 

After just a few moments, though, she groans more out of frustration than pleasure, biting her lip in that way that means she’s close but is having trouble getting all the way there. 

“Relax, baby,” he says breathlessly, kissing her neck. “Let yourself feel it.” 

“You-- _you_ ,” she grits out, grabbing his unbandaged hand and dragging it down. 

“Okay,” he promises, practically panting himself. “Okay.”

He lets her guide his hand to where she wants it, which turns out to pretty much be on her clit. She keeps her own fingers where they are, crooked precisely the way she likes as they slide in and out. He finds himself helplessly distracted by that again, by the sight and the way that her wrist brushes his a bit with each movement, her hips rocking now underneath his touch. 

Shaking himself back into action, he starts with circles around her clit, quickly becoming smaller until he’s got his thumb exactly where he knows she’s most sensitive, fingers splayed out against her inner thigh. He’s a master at this--not just at getting her off, but doing it despite the monsters in her head, the fears that make it hard to lose herself in something as vulnerable as pleasure. 

He keeps his other hand on her breast, and his lips on her neck. Together they send her over the edge into orgasm, writhing in his lap, her breath coming in rough gasps that aren’t quite sobs.

She is absolutely the most gorgeous thing he’s ever seen -- at all times, but especially like this, when she’s nearly out of her mind with pleasure. He blames the mind-boggling sight of her for his lack of logical thinking when he, for some reason, expects her to spend a few seconds recovering, then glance over her shoulder to give him a smug grin and declare her victory. 

That might be something she’d do in other circumstances, but right now they’ve just been physically intimate for the first time in what feels like even longer to her than it does for him. Gamora is often emotional after an orgasm, so he should be expecting it when she turns over on top of him, still breathing hard, and buries her face in his neck. 

Luckily, he’s only surprised for a second before his brain function kicks back in. 

“Hey, hey, it’s okay,” he says softly, wrapping his arms around her. She curls up against him, her hands clinging to his shoulders desperately. She’s not quite crying, but her breathing is unsteady for reasons other than recent orgasm. “You did so good, baby, you’re incredible.” 

“Thank you,” she breathes, her voice unsteady too. “ _Thank you_.”

“Anything, baby,” he promises, his own throat suddenly tight as he's struck by the enormity of this, by the way it actually has made having her back feel more real. Not entirely unlike their first time, when he’d been struggling to comprehend his own survival, let alone the reality of Gamora wanting him. “Anything, anytime. Forever.”

“I love you,” she murmurs against his neck, and there's absolutely no room in his heart for doubt right now, though he knows that her silver still hasn't miraculously returned. “I thought--I was afraid--maybe I had lost the capacity for that too.”

“What, to--come?” Peter furrows his brow a bit. “Well, that would suck. I'm really glad you didn't. And hey, guess what? You double won.”

“No,” says Gamora, shaking her head. “No, I couldn't have done that without you.”

Peter grins, but doesn't have the heart to tease her about conceding a contest for once in her life. “Okay, tie then? Or do I get a prize?”

She lifts her head, and he’s a bit afraid it’s gonna be to give him an unamused or disdainful look for joking when she’s feeling vulnerable, but instead she’s smiling with a little amusement and a lot of love and affection. 

Then it transforms into something more devious, purposeful. She shifts to the side just enough so she’s still pressed up against him but now there’s room for her to run her hand slowly across his chest. His breathing suddenly picks up again. 

“How about a rematch?” she practically purrs. “This one I’m definitely gonna win.”

“Uh, yeah,” he breathes, then clears his throat. “That sounds--good. Deal.” He watches her fingers as they run through his chest hair, her nails scratching lightly against his skin in a way that makes him shiver. 

After a few moments of that, she gives him a look that his foggy brain takes a while to recognize as entertained. “Are you even going to compete?”

“Wha--oh.” He shakes his head, then offers her a slightly sheepish smile. “Hey, it’s like you said: you’re sure to win.”

She smirks. “I’d still like to see you try.” 

“Oh,” says Peter, meeting her eyes. “Okay.” He wants her, undeniably, wants everything he knows she’s offering behind that spark of mischief. But more than that, he wants her to keep smiling, wants to make her happy even if it means that his own needs have to wait. He’d wait forever for her, and then some.

Gamora arches an eyebrow, clearly waiting for him to try. She doesn’t move, though, her lower body still settled firmly across his lap.

He moves his hand down toward his crotch, feigning shock when it bumps into her hip. “What? What’s this here?”

She shrugs, putting on her best innocent face, which actually just serves to make her look all the more devious. “I have no idea.”

He bumps her hip a few more times, frowning. “There seems to be some kind of obstacle in my way.”

“I guess you’ll have to move it,” Gamora challenges, her grin absolutely wicked now.

Screwing his face up in mock concentration, he pretends like he’s trying to lift his arm to move her. With a great amount of concentration, he gets it a few inches into the air, then groans like it weighs a ton and drops it back down across her leg. 

Peter shakes his head, feigning theatrical disappointment. “I can’t. I’ve got noodle arms. What am I gonna do?”

“Oh no,” she laughs, with that beautiful, affectionate smile he’s after. “That certainly is a problem.”

“You would laugh at me in my distress?” He feigns offense, which just makes her laugh more. “When it’s your fault in the first place?”

“Oh, is it?” she asks curiously. 

“Yes,” he says, flopping his arm again for effect. “You’re too gorgeous. You made my arms forget how to work.”

“Well, we can’t have that.” She drags her hand slowly from his chest to his arm, tracing her fingers down it until she reaches his hand. “I suppose it’s only right for me to help fix the problem, then.” 

She moves her hips out of the way, of course brushing against him as much as possible as she does; he arches toward her involuntarily in response, letting out a whimper. 

“How about this?” she purrs, taking his hand in hers and guiding it down his abdomen. 

Suddenly unable to resist, he wraps his hand around himself, her hand still over his as if controlling the movements. 

“Ah, fuck,” he hisses, stroking himself once from base to tip. He tries to sound as casual as possible when he continues, “That--that’s helpful, thanks.” 

“Keep going,” says Gamora. She twists in his lap, settling more on his thighs and keeping her hand over his while pressing her lips to his neck. She presses a line of kisses along his jaw, up to his earlobe, which she pinches gently between her teeth.

“ _Fuck_ ,” he says again, his hips jumping involuntarily, which somehow does absolutely nothing to shake her balance on top of him. 

“Keep going,” she says again, and he realizes that he’s gotten distracted enough for his hand to stop moving. 

“Okay,” he breathes. “Okay, yes.” 

He starts to stroke himself again slowly, still acutely aware of her lips on his neck, her fingers framing his as he moves. He concentrates on the base of his dick, trying to build the sensation gradually, to draw this out and make it last, to make this slow and sweet. He’s failing, though, his own measured touch falling short, pleasure like sparks failing to ignite though he’s almost painfully hard now. He makes a sound on the verge of frustration and twists his wrist, making the strokes rougher.

“Relax,” she coaxes, pressing a few more kisses along his neck before settling on a spot above his collarbone to start sucking lightly on. 

He whimpers, his grip tightening. It feels good, so good, _incredible_ , but it’s not quite enough. Or maybe it’s too much. Either way, he can’t keep the thoughts from coming, the unbidden images of her trying and failing to touch herself in the Stone, to have even one thing that could bring her pleasure while she was trapped there. How horrible and lonely she must have felt. 

That of course leads to thoughts about how he would have felt if she’d stayed trapped for longer, or maybe forever, if he’d had to live without her. He _did_ have to live without her for a while, he knows exactly what that agony feels like, and can imagine getting to a point where he’d be so desperate to regain some shred of the intimacy he shared with her that he’d do _this_ and think of her. That might be his reality, in some other timeline, one they perhaps narrowly avoided. 

So yeah, it’s a bit difficult to focus on his dick with those thoughts in his head. 

“Peter,” she says softly, clearly sensing this. “Sweetheart, relax.” 

Peter blinks, trying to refocus himself on her, on the fact that she’s here and whole and trying to take care of him. His hand is still moving, more mechanically than anything else, though a bit frantically as well. The sensation building through him isn’t exactly pleasure--or it is, in a way, but it’s tainted by the thoughts of loss, of grief, so that instead it’s something verging on panic. He stills himself, forces himself to suck in and then blow out a slow breath, trying to listen to her request to relax. It comes out shaky, though, and makes him realize that his chest hurts a bit, all of his muscles coiled tight, like he’s getting ready for a fight.

“Baby,” Gamora says gently, her voice sweet and sad and so full of tenderness that it alone is almost enough to make him cry. “Baby, let me help you.”

She shifts gracefully off of his lap, guiding him to lean forward with a hand on his back and then climbing up to sit behind him. He almost protests, can’t help thinking of that first night she was back, how she couldn’t stop shivering, needed the support of _him_ sitting behind her like this. She isn’t like that now, he reminds himself. She _isn’t_ and she wants to take care of him.

“I’ve got you,” she soothes, running her hands across and down his chest, spending some time tracing over his abs. Just having her touch him more is enough of a relief to make him relax slightly; then there’s the fact that she’s using that light, gentle touch she knows drives him crazy. 

“I know,” he breathes. He shivers when she kisses his neck from behind, moving his hand with a little more purpose, a little less frustration. But still, it’s not enough, it doesn’t give him pleasure quite like it usually does. 

Gamora’s hand travels lower, brushing against the back of his. “Let me help.” 

Before he can respond _yes, please, god yes_ , she’s wrapping her hand around his dick above his hand, and all he can do is whimper and buck his hips up to meet her. 

“Good,” she says softly, stroking him slowly, making him match pace with her. She swirls a circle over the tip of him with her thumb and he moans, high-pitched and needy and keening. 

“ _Fuck_ , baby.” All at once every nerve ending in his body is on fire, like it’s been _waiting_ just for her touch. The thoughts of having lost her rise again despite his best efforts, despite the fact that he wants to focus, to enjoy this for _her._

He can’t help thinking of those hours without her -- Of how it had seemed impossible, at first, that she could really be gone, that he could be expected to withstand yet _another_ loss, yet _more_ devastation. How he’d held onto fragile hope for a while, only to have the truth and the grief sink in like the bitter cold of space through his mask. Of those horrible hours spent on the ship with nothing but her sword and his thoughts and the knowledge that she would never, _ever_ be there loving him again.

Except that she is here now, whole, taking care of him -- her hand on his dick and her lips on his neck, her voice in his ear, promising that she loves him no matter what. His orgasm takes him by surprise, overwhelming him all at once, stealing his breath.

His hips jerk and stutter and he lets out a long moan with all the breath he has left, a loud, plaintive sound that transforms halfway through into a sob of pure pleasure and relief. At least, that’s how it starts. 

After a few moments his hips still as he comes down from his high, but he doesn’t melt back against Gamora like he normally would, a puddle of love and bliss. Instead he remains tense, breathing still shallow and uneven, heart rate not slowing at all. A sob catches in his throat and he does his best to shove it down because he _cannot do this now_.

He hears Gamora’s voice through the dull pounding in his temples and the sounds he’s not quite managing to keep from escaping. “Peter? Are you all right?”

She takes her hand off of him but the other stays on his chest, stroking in soothing motions instead of arousing which makes the emotions even harder to keep down, the rising sob impossible to stop. 

_Fuck_ , he thinks desperately. _Not now, don’t do this now _. It’s not like this would be the first time he’s gotten emotional after Gamora’s made him come but please, not now.__

__“ _Peter_ ,” she says again, when he hasn’t responded, when it’s become clear that he isn’t going to get himself under control. She shifts behind him again, getting both arms around him and just holding on, her embrace almost impossibly strong and warm and grounding despite her size, despite everything that she’s just been through._ _

__“Sorry,” he gasps, voice sticking in his throat, a few tears spilling over despite the fact that he’s expending every ounce of his self-control. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry. _Fuck._ ”_ _

__“What is it?” she asks, holding him even tighter somehow, her breath cool against the back of his neck as his skin feels like it’s awash in fire. “Please, what is it?”_ _

__He swallows desperately, tries to find his voice, to force it out past the dam of emotions, but all he can do is gasp and sob and mentally curse himself over and over. He wants to tell her how grateful he is to have her here, back, like this. How much it means to _be with_ her like this again, even if neither of them is done healing. Yet somehow all he can do is cry._ _

__“Is it--me?” asks Gamora, her voice scarcely more than a whisper now._ _

__“What?” Peter manages, surprised and confused enough that he can finally choke a word out through the tears. He turns his head to see her face, to see the concern written clear across it._ _

__“Did I do something wrong?” she asks more insistently, but voice still so small he strains to make it out over the sound of his harsh breathing. “Did I hurt you? Did I push you--?”_ _

__“No!” he shouts -- or he would shout, if his voice was stronger than a croak right now. Her distress is enough to shock him into letting his tears fall in earnest, too distracted by the fact that he’s managed to hurt _her_ with this to hold them in any longer. _ _

__“Mora, no,” he continues. “You were perfect, you _are_ perfect. That’s--that’s it, that’s the thing, I just--love you.” He wants to say more, to explain it more eloquently, but he’s just crying too hard now to do anything but gasp for breath. _ _

__Gamora, though -- sweet, caring, perfect Gamora -- seems to have understood him anyway._ _

__“Hey, hey, it’s okay,” she says gently. “I know. Come here.”_ _

__He’s already here, lying on top of her, but he understands her too, immediately turns in her arms and buries his face in her neck._ _

__Gamora shifts his weight deftly, so that she's holding him even more than before, not just supporting him but surrounding him somehow. She's his whole world, his whole damn universe, he thinks for what feels like the millionth time. All he wants is to stay like this, to be held and safe and loved. To never lose anyone ever again. To keep time from moving on and things from changing._ _

__“Talk to me,” she says after what feels like a very long while, though in reality he's lost track. It could be minutes or hours._ _

__Peter sighs, taking a shaky breath. His voice is muffled against her neck, but he doesn't bother to move, knows that she'll understand him anyway. “You think if I wished really hard, I could make time stand still?”_ _

__She tenses, then breathes it back out, so that he can practically feel her making the conscious choice to relax again. “I think, in reality, you wouldn't want to.”_ _

__He winces, cursing himself for reminding her of her time the Stone; for reminding them _both_ of that now. “No, fuck, I--”_ _

__“It’s okay,” she says quickly, kissing his temple. “Just...it is not as good as it may sound sometimes.”_ _

__He nods, taking a few shaky breaths to try to calm himself down as much as possible. It doesn’t work, but he makes himself force words out anyway, trying to keep his voice light. “I would like to stay with you and cuddle forever.”_ _

__“We will have plenty of opportunities to cuddle,” she says gently._ _

__“I know,” he whispers tearfully, though he can’t help the stab of fear that he’s going to lose her._ _

__She cards her fingers through his hair. “But that’s not the only reason you would wish to freeze time, is it?”_ _

__He’s quiet for a long moment, aside from the sound of his continued crying. He didn’t want to tell her about this, didn’t want to worry her or put more of his emotional bullshit on her when she’s already got so much on her mind. But he’s already sobbing on her shoulder, has _already_ sobbed on her shoulder since they’ve been on Earth and probably about a hundred times in the past four years. And she’s holding him, and she hasn’t pulled away in disgust, never has despite how many times he worried she might in the past. _ _

__“I don't want to see my grandfather,” he admits finally, the words sticking in his throat, coming out hoarse. “I know that I should. I know he’s my family, but I--I don’t.”_ _

__Gamora tenses, though she makes no move to pull away. “I know you’ve always been reluctant to visit him. And that you have said you didn’t have the best relationship with him as a child. Did he--mistreat you?”_ _

__“No,” Peter says immediately. For all that he’s avoided and resented his grandfather, he’s never once associated him with abuse. Certainly not with the kind of cruelty he experienced with the Ravagers, or she suffered under Thanos. It almost feels silly explaining it to her, which is why he didn’t do it years ago. “No, it wasn’t--It was more that he--My mom was young when she had me, you know? And she wasn’t married to my dad because he--”_ _

__“Was Ego,” she finishes for him, apparently aware of how hard that still is for him to say._ _

__“Yeah,” Peter sighs. “But having a kid when you didn’t have a husband was--not good where I grew up. So after I was born, my grandpa kinda--I think--I made my mom a disappointment to him.”_ _

__“He blames you...for being born?” she asks slowly._ _

__“I think so,” he says, taking measured breaths in an attempt to make himself understood through the lingering tears. “It seemed that way to me. For most of my life on Earth I hardly saw him at all. The few times I did things were really tense. He blamed my mom too, but he would hardly even look at me.”_ _

__“That--” Her hand that’s been stroking his back curls into a fist and he hears her inhale deeply, carefully controlled. “--is incredibly irrational.”_ _

__He can’t help but let out a watery laugh, sure that’s not quite how she intended to word that when she began. She’s always been protective of him and gets enraged when she hears of people hurting him, even that far in the past. He finds it incredibly sweet, and more than a little sexy._ _

__“I know,” he says, sniffling. “He changed after my mom got sick, though. He was around a lot more. He was nice to us. He took care of money stuff. I stayed with him when my mom was in the hospital overnight, which was...a lot, towards the end. But we still just… We weren’t close.”_ _

__“Because of his past behavior?” Gamora asks, sounding calmer but still angry on his behalf._ _

__“Maybe.” He shrugs. “I think it was more that we had nothing in common. He didn’t even like our music.”_ _

__He’s pretty sure he can hear a hint of a smile in her voice when she speaks again. “Well, then I don’t blame you. I am not sure anyone can be a truly good person if they dislike your music.”_ _

__“Right?” Peter sits up slightly, meeting her gaze through still-wet eyelashes. “That’s what my mom always said too. I mean, not about my grandpa directly. I think she missed him. But she always said anyone who didn’t like our music wasn’t worth knowing, and I just--always thought of that when he’d make me turn it off.”_ _

__“We don’t have to see him,” Gamora says immediately. “I know he’s your family by blood, but that doesn’t have to mean anything. If it’s going to hurt you--”_ _

__“No,” Peter interrupts, surprising himself. All he’s wanted was to avoid this, to have her accept his reluctance like she is right now. And yet, now that he’s been offered that exact reprieve, it seems painfully clear that it would be a mistake. “No, I--I don’t want to see him, but I can’t--I can’t _not._ ”_ _

__“Why?” she presses. “You are not obligated to love someone just because you share his DNA. Or because he helped raise you.”_ _

__“I know,” he says, leaning down to kiss her bare shoulder, lingering. “I might not end up loving him or getting along with him any better than I did as a kid but...I dunno. We did have some good times. And he’s the last connection I have to my mom. My Walkman is…” He trails off, even four years later unable to think of it without pain._ _

__She nods in understanding, sweeping her hand over his back again, rubbing in comforting circles. “And you feel like your seeing grandfather again will help you reconnect with your mother?”_ _

__“I guess,” he mumbles, though that’s exactly how feels. “Plus I think she’d want me to. She forgave him when he came back when she was sick and...I think she’d want me to give him another chance.”_ _

__“If you are sure this is what you want?” she prompts gently, scanning his face._ _

__“Want is a strong word,” he allows. “But I need to, I think. No, I know.” He feels surprisingly firm about this now, given how reticent he’s been for the past thirty years, and even just a few short hours ago._ _

__“Then we should do that next,” says Gamora, which is what he’s been afraid she’d say all along. “No more distractions.”_ _

__Only now he...isn’t. At least, not as much. He’s been dreading those words sending him into a panic attack for the better part of the past week, but now all he feels is an odd sort of relief. He’s known this was coming, and now it feels like the right time. Soon he’ll have all of the answers he’s been fearing for the past thirty years -- Is his grandfather still alive? Still in St. Charles? Is he as judgmental as Peter remembers?_ _

__“Okay,” he says softly, finding her hand and pulling it to his lips to gently kiss the back of it. “Okay, we’ll do that.”_ _

__Gamora makes a soft sound in the back of her throat at the touch, turning her hand in his grasp so that she can trace his lower lip with a fingertip. “Is this what you’ve been trying to avoid the past few days?”_ _

__Peter tenses, then forces himself to let it go. “Yeah. Did you know?”_ _

__“Yes,” she says bluntly. “You are not subtle. At least not to me.”_ _

__He has to laugh, because of course she knew. She probably knew the whole time. “Then why did you go along with it?”_ _

__“Because you clearly weren’t ready,” she says. “I was hoping you would tell me when you were.”_ _

__“I might have…” He pauses, considering. “Eventually.”_ _

__She smirks and pats his cheek gently. “I was planning to ask you tomorrow if you were still acting like everything was fine.”_ _

__“Smart,” he says ruefully. “Good call.”_ _

__“You did tell me,” she points out._ _

__He snorts. “Only after I cried on you. Which...sorry about that.” He uses the edge of the blanket to wipe away the tears he got on her. “I got your shoulder all wet.”_ _

__“That’s okay,” she says. “You got--other parts of me--wet first.”_ _

__He chokes on air and gapes at her for a second, incredulous. He takes in her face, her horrible attempt to look innocent, and he bursts out laughing. “Mora--” he gasps. Tears stream down his cheeks for an entirely different reason now._ _

__He drops his head back to her shoulder, heedless of the fact that he’s going to get it wet again. Gamora shakes with her own chuckles, obviously pleased with herself. He hugs her as close as he can, thinking that no matter what happens tomorrow, he’ll be happy as long as he’s with her._ _


	25. Chapter 25

“Peter?” Gamora says, breaking the silence that’s stretched between them; the only sounds for the past few minutes have been the rustling of the paper wrappers around their shamelessly greasy breakfast and the melody of The Doors. 

_Can’t you see that I am not afraid?  
What was that promise that you made?_

“Mm?” he grunts, his mouth full of hashbrowns. He swallows, wipes his mouth with the back of a hand, then looks over at her. “Yeah?”

She’s currently contemplating her sandwich, which she’s about halfway done eating despite taking her usual small, appreciative bites. “What is a Mick Muffin?” 

She says it like it’s two separate words and he narrowly manages to suppress a laugh, knowing that she often doesn’t appreciate it when he finds humor in her struggling to understand Earth names and references. Still, the question is so adorable that he has to hide his smile behind another bite of hash browns, so he can’t actually answer it right away. 

“I am familiar with eggs,” says Gamora, still inspecting her sandwich. “And muffins. But how is a Mick Muffin different?”

“Um,” says Peter, swallowing with some effort. “I dunno. I guess because it’s a muffin sold by McDonald’s?”

“Is that a Terran naming convention?” she asks, her frown deepening. “I haven’t noticed it at any of the other places we’ve eaten.”

“McDonald’s just does that,” he decides. “To play on their name. It wouldn’t work with other places. Like…” He thinks about it, considering the other places they’ve passed. “Like Taco Bell. You can’t have a--Ta-taco.” He snorts, giggling as soon as he says it. “Actually, I take it back! Ta-ta works.” 

“Really, Peter?” Gamora sighs, but she doesn’t sound surprised. 

“Your maturity level continues to astound, Mr. Star-Lord,” Knight Rider chimes in. 

“I’m hilarious,” Peter says, unperturbed. 

“I still do not understand the difference,” Gamora mutters. 

“The Egg McMuffin was created in 1972 to resemble eggs Benedict,” Knight Rider informs them, snooty lecture-voice fully in place. “I believe they do quite a crude job of it.”

“Hey.” Peter points his half-eaten hashbrown at the dashboard. “Don’t knock McDonald’s. It’s a staple of the Terran diet.”

“It is delicious,” Gamora admits, making a happy noise when she finally tries her hashbrowns. 

“Just wait,” he says after a moment, distracted by that noise, and by watching her lips. “There’s a ton of other fast food places I gotta show you.”

She raises her eyebrows, either in response to the statement or his obvious distraction. “Fast food?”

The statement, then. “You know, places like this. With the drive-thrus.” 

“I do like drive-thrus,” says Gamora, taking another bite of hashbrowns and then licking her lips. So maybe in response to _both_ the statement _and_ the distraction, then. “They are good for privacy.”

He clears his throat, knowing that she means avoiding the stares of other humans, but also that she’s probably enjoying teasing him. “You like drive-thrus? We can do drive-thrus! We can do a drive-thru tour of the United States!”

“That would be an extraordinary waste,” says Knight Rider, whose opinion absolutely nobody has asked for or wants, clearly. “Not that your present destinations have been particularly well thought out.”

“Hey!” says Peter, glaring at the dash.

“We are going to your grandfather’s next,” Gamora reminds him, as if he needs any help remembering. The butterflies mingling with the fried potatoes in his stomach are serving as their own form of reminder. 

“ _That_ is a worthwhile destination,” Knight Rider allows. “Family should be a priority whenever possible.”

“Yeah?” Peter scoffs. “What’s your grandpa, a trash compactor?”

“I have no relatives,” says Knight Rider. “I am a computer program. Also, there is a phone call for you coming in.”

“What?” He glances around the car as if expecting to see their phones materialize, when he’s pretty positive they put them in one of their bags. Plus, he doesn’t hear any ringing. “How do you know?”

“Your phones automatically link to my system when they enter the car,” Knight Rider says as if that should be obvious. “Would you like me to answer the call?”

“Who is it from?” Gamora asks, though she’s already sitting up with interest; very few people have either of these phone numbers, so there’s a pretty good chance it’s someone they want to talk to. 

“Nebula, according to the contact information,” Knight Rider says. 

“Answer it,” Gamora says quickly. The next second, a holo image pops up from the screen in the center of the dashboard, Nebula’s face taking up most of it. From the background, she appears to be on a ship. 

“Gamora,” she greets, in a tone that Peter, only after years of knowing her, can recognize as at least somewhat pleased. Her gaze slides to the side briefly and she curls her lip at him. “Quill.” Then she immediately turns back to her sister. 

“Nice to see you too,” he mutters, utterly failing at sounding insincere. He’s more than used to this kind of greeting from her, and he’s suddenly very eager to hear what news she might have. 

Nebula hears him, of course--her senses are just as enhanced as Gamora's, if not as elegantly so. And she always seems to be particularly attenuated to him on top of it. 

“It might occasionally be nice to hear from you, Quill,” says Nebula. “But it is never nice to _see_ you. I will never understand what Gamora sees in such an unfortunate-looking, _hairy_ man.”

Peter runs a hand over his stubble and then through his hair, making it fluff up as much as possible. “Don't hate me because I'm beautiful. We all know it's just because you wish you looked like me.”

“That would be disturbing,” says Gamora, wrinkling her nose in a way that makes it difficult to resist the urge to lean over and kiss her. 

“Because your face is disturbing,” says Nebula, in a tone that's a bizarre mix of menace and absolutely terrible humor. 

“Oh,” says Knight Rider. “I _like_ this woman.”

The corners of Nebula's lips twitch, not quite a smile. “Did the car just insult you? Perhaps Stark isn't entirely useless after all.”

“The car insults me because he secretly loves me,” Peter says loftily, “and he doesn’t know how to express his feelings. The two of you have a lot in common.”

Nebula scowls and opens her mouth but he cuts her off before she can speak. 

“Ah-ah.” He wags his finger. “If you insult me, you’re just proving my point.” 

She might actually growl. 

“Computer programs do not have feelings,” Knight Rider chimes in, sounding very much like he’s pouting. 

“Behave, all three of you,” Gamora says wearily. She reaches over to rub Peter’s scruff affectionately though, and he can’t help but preen. Nebula rolls her eyes more dramatically than he’s ever managed, even in his most turbulent teenage years. 

“Would you like to hear my update?” Nebula asks sardonically. “Or are you too busy grooming your boyfriend’s face?”

“I am not too busy,” Gamora says. She keeps her hand on his cheek, which pleases him to no end even as he mutters about how he’s perfectly groomed. 

Nebula switches into business-mode. “There was no Stonekeeper on Vormir. I followed the instructions you gave me, but found no one.”

Gamora nods, more disappointed than surprised. “You followed the directions exactly? Into the mountains?”

Nebula scowls. “Are you questioning my competence?”

“Nah,” says Peter, before she can answer. In part it's protectiveness toward Gamora, but it's also just this...eternal sparring match he's got going with Nebula. “She loves you too much to do that. If anyone was gonna question your competence, it would be me.”

“Unsurprisingly, since you appear to question the competence of anyone who disagrees with you, Quill,” Knight Rider interjects. 

“I do not!” says Peter. “And hey! It's _Mr. Star-Lord._ ”

Nebula rolls her eyes again. “It's a wonder the car ever does anything other than mock you.”

“No one is calling you incompetent,” says Gamora, before Peter can get in another round. “The Keeper is notoriously difficult to find. You searched the entire range of mountains?”

“Yes,” says Nebula, something in her tone shifting. “I went all the way to the cliff. I saw your blood in the snow.”

Peter inhales sharply, able to picture it exactly. He saw it when he held the Stone, he sees it most nights in his dreams; the bottom of the cliff, Gamora’s body lying twisted and cold in the snow, blood pooled around her. 

Gamora’s hand slips off his cheek and down to grab his hand, squeezing gently. “I am sorry you had to see that,” she says. She’s looking at Nebula, but he knows she means both of them. He takes a deep breath to ground himself, focusing on her warm, very much alive hand in his. 

Nebula makes a vague noise, a sort of short hum she does whenever the conversation is veering into uncomfortably emotional territory. 

“Maybe the Stonekeeper only comes out when the Stone is actually--there,” Peter suggests, trying to keep his voice level. 

Nebula side-eyes him, a little more bite in her voice than usual. “Yes, I figured that one out too, genius.” 

“Nebula,” Gamora says warningly, then softer, “Thank you for looking. Did you get the list of names I sent you?”

“Yes. I am on my way to one of them right now; the Asgardian _scholar_ , apparently. Runa.” Nebula's lip curls a bit. “She comes from a race renowned for its warriors and yet she chooses a life of books? Pathetic.”

Peter wrinkles his nose in agreement. “Yeah. Why would you want to read books when you can watch movies?”

“You are in no position to judge anyone else's life choices, thief,” says Nebula, predictably. 

“Nah,” says Peter. “Ravagers got a code. They’re pirates. Or cowboys, if you'd prefer.”

This time Gamora doesn't even bother to shush them, just ignores their bickering and continues the conversation on her own. “Runa was the most helpful of the contacts on my list. It was her help that at last led me to the map, and Vormir. You should be grateful for her assistance, should you manage to obtain it.”

“I will never be grateful to the person who led my sister to her death,” Nebula growls, characteristic sarcasm morphing instantly into true anger and bitterness. 

“I chose my own fate,” says Gamora, shaking her head. “I would have been dead long before Vormir, were it not for Thanos’ interference.”

She says it so casually that for half a second he doesn’t understand what she’s talking about, until clarity slams into him like an energy shot to the chest. Knowhere is on fire around him, he’s holding a blaster up to Gamora’s neck while she cries and he cries and Thanos smirks and he promised, _he promised_.

“Peter?” Gamora squeezes his hand again, holds it in both of hers. 

He takes a deep breath through his nose, only just realizing that he’s been breathing shallowly and unevenly. 

“I’m sorry,” Gamora whispers. 

“What’s wrong with him?” Nebula asks. Normally he’d be happy with the slim note of actual, non-sarcastic concern he can hear in her voice, but now it just makes him blush, embarrassed that someone besides Gamora is seeing him this way. 

“Nothing!” he says quickly. “Uh—just—wanted to show you something!” He turns, extracts his hand from Gamora’s to reach into the backseat and pull out one of the numerous bags. “Look what we got you!” 

He grabs the first thing that could be for her: the horrifying Yeti hat they’d gotten from the cryptozoology museum, that he’d joked about mounting on a stick and presenting to Nebula as the head of an enemy. 

The hat is furry and brown, with flaps that are made to cover the wearer’s ears and strings with little poofs that hang down even farther. Across the front, there’s felt eyes sewn on, along with a mouth filled with lots of comically large teeth. The thing looks like a cartoon trying very hard to be menacing, which makes it all the more hilarious. 

Nebula looks absolutely flummoxed, speechless, clearly trying not to laugh at the thing. Then she pastes her scowl back on. “What the hell is _that_? And _why_ would you think _I_ would want it?”

“Well,” says Peter, running a hand through his hair again, “you could have luscious locks like mine. Don’t try to pretend you’re not jealous of them.”

“Peter,” Gamora says warningly, which makes it occur to him that maybe teasing Nebula about her lack of hair isn’t the most sensitive thing he could do, particularly considering that it seems to be related to her modifications. 

She just shakes her head, though. “Your taste is terrible, as usual, Quill.”

“Would you still say that if I told you Gamora has a matching one?” he says enticingly, pulling another identical one out of the bag and putting it over Gamora’s head. 

“Peter,” she sighs, but she’s smiling, which of course only encourages him. The tension in the car had been too thick to breathe through; all he’d wanted was to lighten the mood, steer them away from those painful topics. 

“Oh, good,” Nebula drawls. “Now we are both on our way to being as hairy as you.” 

He can tell she’s struggling to keep up her disdainful tone. She’s doing pretty well, he’s gotta admit. He doesn’t know how she can not grin at how adorable Gamora looks in that hat. 

“Exactly,” he says. “And to aid in this Terran journey, you also both have honorary Terran names. Yours is Natalie.” He pulls out the keychain from one of the other bags to show her. 

She stares, apparently unimpressed. “What possible use could I have for either of those things?” 

“Souvenirs aren’t for being useful,” he explains sagely. “They’re to remind you of the place you went to! Or, in your case, the people who bought it for you! And now these keychains will remind me and Gamora of a dinky little rest stop--”

“And it will remind me of your terrible taste.” Nebula shakes her head. “As if I needed any help remembering that.”

Peter grins, still delighted. “I love the idea of you thinking of me every day!”

Nebula makes a noise of disgust. “It is bad enough I have to associate you with my sister.”

“Oh,” says Peter, then pretends to snap his fingers regretfully. “Guess we won't ask you to be Gamora's maid of honor, then.”

“I am not _made_ to be anything of Gamora's,” Nebula sneers, then softens a bit. “Except, perhaps, her sister.”

“Aww, that's sweet,” says Peter. “But I meant _maid,_ like...a Terran woman who’s...innocent, or something. I dunno. It's a wedding thing.”

“I am neither honorable nor innocent.” She eyes Gamora. “And please tell me you were _not_ rash enough to marry this oaf.”

“Hey!” Peter makes a face. “I’m not an oaf.”

Gamora sighs. “We are not married, Nebula. But I would hardly call such a thing rash after four years.”

“Besides,” Peter says, still pouting a bit, “I’m a total catch.”

“Yes, you are,” Gamora says with complete sincerity. She raises his hand to her lips and kisses the back of it. He might melt. Damn, he wishes this wasn’t a video call so he could lean over and kiss Gamora properly without her sister protesting. 

Nebula’s already making a noise of disgust at just _that_ tiny display of affection. “Please keep your mush to yourselves.”

Peter sticks his tongue out at her. 

“You know this is permanent, Nebula,” Gamora says, something stern in her voice. “We are not married but--”

“Yeah, yeah.” Nebula rolls her eyes. “You _glow_ for him because you’re disgustingly dramatic. I know.” 

Peter gapes like a goddamn fish at her, feeling like someone's dumped a bucket of cold water over his head or something. He knows how private Gamora is about her silver and what it means. As far as he knows, she hasn't told anyone else on the team...though Mantis probably knows, in her own way of intuiting things. And it's not like he's unaware that she and Nebula have gotten close over the past few years. It's not even like he minds her knowing. It's just...unexpected. 

He opens his mouth to respond, but what comes out instead of words is a raspy giggle. It's followed by another one, and then another, until there are tears streaming down his face. 

“Gamora,” says Nebula, “I think your boyfriend is broken. Perhaps you should try turning it off and back on again.”

“She always turns me on,” he wheezes, trying to catch his breath. 

Gamora sighs, touching his shoulder lightly. “I told her because I needed her to understand the depth of our relationship, Peter. But I am sorry if I should have asked you first.”

He waves a hand, clearing his throat as the laughter finally abates. “No, no, it's just-- _she_ is the biggest diva I know, and here she is calling you dramatic.”

“What did you just call me?” Nebula asks. He’s pretty sure she’d be drawing a weapon on him if they weren’t separated by half a galaxy. 

Gamora presses her lips together, poorly containing a smile. “You must admit, you do have some dramatic tendencies.” 

Nebula scowls, but there’s barely any heat behind it. She’s totally just doing it for the drama. 

“C’mon,” Peter says, as if he’s going to be able to cajole her into admitting she’s a drama queen. “You sent us a count of your revenge kills. I’m surprised you didn’t literally mount anyone’s head on a stick.” 

“I didn’t have time,” she deadpans. She’s able to muster a lot more annoyance in her expression when she’s talking to him, he notices, than when she speaks to Gamora. “The next one, perhaps.”

He’s only about seventy percent sure she’s joking. 

“See?” he laughs. “So dramatic.” 

“Not nearly as much as _glowing_ with love,” Nebula insists. Gamora’s gleeful smile falls a bit, and Peter sobers up too, more from Gamora’s reaction than anything. There’s even something softer in Nebula’s voice when she continues, “I suppose that is why you want it back so much? You are not as dramatic without it?” 

Gamora sets her jaw, but her tone almost matches Nebula’s when she answers. “Precisely. You think I am going to let you beat me in that arena?”

The corners of Nebula’s lips tug up a bit again, still not quite a smile. “I do not expect you to _let_ me win at anything without a fight. Though if I can in some way help you regain your silver, I suppose I will be happy to concede that you are superior at _glowing._ ”

“Thank you,” Gamora says earnestly, all traces of humor gone from her voice now. “I mean that, Nebula.”

Nebula sniffs dismissively. “It would be a very small defeat to accept.”

Gamora shakes her head. “Not that. I mean--also that, yes. But mainly I meant going after this information. After my soul, possibly.”

“It is nothing,” says Nebula, still trying to minimize this for some reason. She shakes herself and plasters her usual aloof facade back on, though her words are anything but. “I wouldn’t worry about your soul, though. You are your typical self, as far as I can tell.”

“Am I?” Gamora asks, something small and hopeful in her voice. 

“Yes,” Nebula says, like she’s surprised Gamora even needs to ask. “Do you have any reason to believe you are not, besides the lack of your usual skin condition?”

Gamora glances at Peter and for a second he’s concerned that she’s going to say _yes_ , here’s some other terrible secret she’s been keeping from him this whole time, surprise! But thankfully what she says isn’t news to him. 

“I have not been feeling quite like my usual self,” she says quietly, like she’s ashamed to admit it. “It’s like the Stone is haunting me.”

“You’ve been getting better, though,” Peter says, rubbing her shoulder. “Or you--you seem like you have, at least?”

She offers him a small smile. “That is true. I feel better than I did--after. But still not like my old self.”

“Wow,” Nebula says, tone sarcastic and unimpressed. “Imagine that: You feel weird after dear old dad chucked you off a cliff and trapped you in hell. There can be no other explanation for that feeling than losing part of your soul.” 

Peter bristles at her tone and is about to jump in again when Gamora surprises him by laughing. She covers her face with her hands while her shoulders shake, practically giggling like Nebula's just told the silliest joke in the galaxy. 

“See?” Nebula looks down her nose at Gamora, shaking her head in mock sadness. “You are insufferable as ever, sister. Glitter or not.”

Gamora wipes her eyes as she finally looks up. “Fine. If you don't think I should be considering ways to get my soul back, what _do_ you suggest I do?”

“What do you think I am, your therapist?” Nebula shrugs dismissively. “I don't know. Killing always seems therapeutic to me. Or I suppose you could eat some more of that fried sugar mess.”

“I will take that under advisement,” Gamora says fondly. “But I hope you will continue pursuing a definite answer for me even if you think it unnecessary. I have lived with enough uncertainty about my fate since leaving Thanos four years ago. I would prefer not to continue it indefinitely.”

Nebula rolls her eyes. “You know that I will. Even though this mission involves much less killing than I would like.”

“It involves _no_ killing,” Gamora says immediately. 

“I know,” Nebula says disdainfully. “What about maiming?”

“ _Nebula_.”

Peter laughs, pleased that the conversation is turning lighter again. And also amused that discussing killing and maiming is a light topic of conversation for them. “C’mon, Mora, not even a little maiming?”

“Look, even your boyfriend sides with me,” Nebula says. 

Gamora gives him a stern look and he holds his hands up in surrender. “Just kidding, babe.”

“Ugh.” Nebula makes a noise of disgust. “You have no spine, Quill.”

“Sure I do,” he says. “But it, and the rest of me, belongs to Gamora.”

Gamora smirks at him and pats his cheek. “Good answer.” 

“Okay,” Nebula says, sounding done with the world. “I’m going to hang up now.”

“Wait!” Peter says, pointing at a passing billboard as if Nebula is going to be able to see it. “Look, there’s an ad for a wedding chapel coming up!” He throws his arm around Gamora’s shoulders and grins teasingly at Nebula. 

He expects Nebula to grimace or make some other expression of disgust. Instead she looks mildly confused.

“A what?” asks Gamora, a similar expression on her face.

“Is it a place where Terrans worship their god of matrimony?” Nebula looks over at Gamora, apparently expecting her opinion on this to be shared. “That _does_ seem like a very Terran thing to do. A highly sentimentalist race, if Quill is any indication.”

“Aww, thanks,” says Peter, though he has to suppress a sigh. Somehow he’s managed to make a reference that went straight over their heads again. Four years and he doesn’t seem to be any closer to avoiding that pitfall. He knows quickie weddings and elopements are a thing across the galaxy, but it’s true that most places don’t include the guise of religion that’s apparently still prevalent on Earth. “And no. It’s a place people get married when they’re like...in a hurry. Or don’t have the money for a big wedding.”

“Oh,” says Nebula, tone clearly disdainful now. “So you were making a joke about rash decisions. How typical.”

“Or romance,” he says loftily, sticking his nose up. 

“That is much worse,” Nebula says. 

“ _You’re_ much worse,” he mumbles. Then he glances at Gamora, who he’s still got his arm around, to find her giving him a strange look. It’s close to her _I want to kiss Peter but the setting isn’t really appropriate _look but not quite. He wonders if he’s in trouble for taunting her sister.__

__“Ugh, I am actually hanging up now,” Nebula says, apparently grossed out by the look, whatever it is. “I am off to go interrogate--without violence--this Asgardian scholar. Or whatever.”_ _

__Gamora shakes herself and turns back to the screen. “Thank you, sister. And I love you.”_ _

__“I am _not_ saying it in front of him again,” Nebula says petulantly, throwing him a glare. She does offer Gamora a wave before she hangs up, though, which he supposes is nice. For her._ _

__Gamora waves back, even though the screen has gone blank now. He squeezes her shoulders in comfort. “Hey. I think she’s warming up to me.”_ _

__She laughs softly. “She likes you, Peter. Don’t let her insults fool you.”_ _

__He feigns shock, though he knows she’s right, has known that about Nebula for...well, probably longer than Nebula has grudgingly known it about herself. “What, you mean she only wants to sew her _favorite_ faces to her _favorite_ genitals?”_ _

__Gamora looks mildly disgusted at that, an expression that makes her look a bit like she and Nebula could actually be blood relatives. “I hope she has no such strong emotions about your genitals. We would need to have a very awkward conversation about that.”_ _

__Peter snorts, feeling a fresh, overwhelming swell of affection for her. “I know, I know. My genitals are strictly your property. Though I still don’t get why you wouldn’t let me get your name tattooed on my dick.”_ _

__“Peter,” she sighs, shaking her head._ _

__“I sympathize, Miss Gamora,” says Knight Rider, speaking up for the first time in so long that Peter’s almost managed to forget he’s still listening in._ _

__“Wait,” Peter interrupts. “How do you feel sympathy? Aren’t you the one who loves to convince us you’re a computer program that doesn’t have any messy human emotions?”_ _

__“True,” Knight Rider allows. “But I am frequently surrounded by individuals less intelligent than I am. Therefore, I sympathize with Miss Gamora’s plight.”_ _

__“Hey, is that a jab at me?” Peter asks. “Me and my un-tattooed genitals are offended.”_ _

__“Of course not, Mr. Star-Lord,” Knight Rider responds in a much too innocent tone._ _

__“Good,” Gamora says firmly before Peter can respond. She levels a look at the dashboard, which they appear to have collectively decided is where Knight Rider lives. “Because I do not consider Peter to be less intelligent than I am. He is simply good at fooling others into underestimating him, which often works to his advantage.”_ _

__Peter straightens up, grinning more and more with every word she says. It’s not like this is the first time he’s heard her say something like this -- far from it, in fact -- but it still makes him glow with pride every time._ _

__Knight Rider makes that weird throat clearing sound. “Of course. That does indeed sound like a useful strategy.” He sounds awkward, which makes Peter snort; he’s like Rocket when he’s trying to apologize without acknowledging that there’s something he needs to apologize for._ _

__“It is,” Peter says proudly, leaning back in his seat with an arm behind his head, basking in Gamora’s praise and Knight Rider’s chagrin. He doesn’t go so far as to stick his feet up on the dash, but he’s trying to put out that general energy._ _

__“Yes, well.” Knight Rider makes that noise again. “Approximately thirty-seven minutes to your destination.”_ _

__“Thanks,” says Peter, trying to swallow down the fear that’s started to bubble up again in the pit of his stomach. They’ll have answers soon, he tells himself. About his grandfather, at least. He should probably count himself lucky, having just heard Gamora talk about all of the unknowns she’s been living with. And all the ones she’s _still_ living with that may or may not be possible to resolve. _ _

__Apparently reading all of those thoughts in his posture and heartrate, Gamora shifts closer to him again, resting a hand on his knee. “I will be with you. Whatever happens.”_ _

__“I know,” he says softly, turning to kiss the top of her head._ _

__She’s quiet for another moment, but he can tell she wants to ask him something else, is entirely unsurprised by the question when she does finally voice it. “Do you agree with what Nebula said about--me? That I seem like myself? Despite everything?”_ _

__“I do,” he says sincerely. “You are. You’re always you, Mora. Even--right after, when it was hard for you. And hey, the way you kicked Knight Rider’s ass just then? Super Gamora move.”_ _

__He feels more than hears the tiny laugh she lets out at that, an exhale of relief as she lets her head rest on his shoulder. Knight Rider wisely stays silent._ _

__“I do feel more like myself than when I first came back,” she admits. “But still not completely. I am afraid...that I never will.”_ _

__“It’ll just take time,” he says quickly, instinctively wanting to assure her that everything will go back to normal and be completely fine forever and ever. He bites his tongue to resist that urge, though, because he’s well aware that it might not be true._ _

__He swallows and rubs her shoulder soothingly. “Or maybe you’re just gonna feel a little bit different now. Like Nebula said, that was a big, terrible thing that happened to you, and that kinda thing--it can change you, you know? Not in a bad way,” he hastens to add. “Just...some things you can’t just file away in your head and move on. They leave lasting marks.”_ _

__She turns sideways, leaning closer and pressing her forehead to the side of his neck. Peter smiles, recognizing the gesture as equal parts affection and comfort._ _

__“See?” she says, voice muffled against his shoulder. “You’re brilliant.”_ _

__“I mean, _I_ know that,” Peter says warmly, running his hand over her back again. He can feel an almost imperceptible hitch in her breathing, but he has a feeling it’s from relief rather than anything else. “I’m also extremely humble.”_ _

__“No way,” says Gamora, still not lifting her head. “That’s Drax.”_ _

__Peter laughs helplessly, overwhelmed for the millionth time by how much he loves her, how even after four years, her warmth and sweetness and humor manage to surprise him in the best possible ways. She absolutely _is_ herself, silver or not. _ _

__“I’ll be with you too,” he says suddenly, remembering her promise from a few moments earlier. “Whatever happens--with Nebula and the Stone and your silver.”_ _

__“I know,” she whispers, finding his free hand and squeezing it._ _

__Knight Rider makes his now-familiar throat clearing sound. “We are approaching the wedding chapel you mentioned earlier, Mr. Quill. If you were serious about the interest you expressed in it, that is.”_ _

__“Are _you_ suggesting a detour, Knight Rider?” Peter asks with feigned shock. Not that it isn’t surprising, given Knight Rider’s frequent disdain for their roundabout road trip style, but Peter’s working to cover up the very real excitement he feels at the prospect of actually going to the chapel. _ _

__It’s not like they’ve never talked about the possibility before, but it’s been rare and it’s been a _while_. Gamora’s aware that he’d marry her anytime, anywhere, since like...a week after they met, probably. Definitely since Ego. But Gamora’s insecurities had reared their heads and insisted she didn’t deserve something as nice and _normal_ as marriage. As much as Peter wanted to insist she deserves every good thing in the universe, the thought was obviously more anxiety-provoking than exciting to her, so he’d dropped it. The last thing he wants is to make her feel pressured to do something she’s not ready for._ _

__No matter how much he’d love to be Mr. Gamora._ _

__“I am merely pointing out activities that might be of interest to you,” Knight Rider says. “As you have expressed direct, specific interest in this one, I felt it a safe bet.”_ _

__“Well, thanks bud,” Peter says, watching the chapel go by the window. It’s pretty, he admits to himself; cute and quaint, intricate without being ostentatious. “But that’s something we’d need to—“_ _

__“Let’s do it.”_ _

__Peter blinks, certain that he’s heard wrong, imagined things, or that he’s just spent so much time wishing for her to say something of the sort that he’s managed to transform some other words into those. The fact that she’s still leaning into him isn’t helping either, because it’s difficult to see her face and her voice is still a bit muffled into his shoulder._ _

__“Um.” He clears his throat, trying and failing to put on a facade of nonchalance. “What was that? Because I thought you just--”_ _

__“I said ‘let’s do it,’” Gamora says more firmly. She sits up, apparently realizing that her position was making it difficult to communicate. “Unless you are too eager to get to your grandfather’s home, in which case I will understand entirely and support you unconditionally.”_ _

__Peter clears his throat again, his mouth suddenly very, very dry. “Um. Do you mean ‘do it’ like--like visit the chapel as tourists or…”_ _

__Gamora puts a hand over his mouth, silencing him for the moment. Then she takes his free hand and laces their fingers, meeting his eyes determinedly. “Do you want to marry me, Peter?”_ _

__He searches her face, worried that he must be hallucinating somehow, that this is too good to be true and she’s going to turn into bubbles in his arms any second. But no, she’s here, whole and perfectly real and really perfect and asking him to marry her._ _

__He makes a muffled noise against her hand, practically a sob, and nods vigorously. She lets her hand slip off his mouth so he can say it. “Yes! _Yes_ , Gamora—holy fuck, of course I wanna marry you! Are you—are you serious? You wanna marry me?” _ _

__“Of course I want to marry you,” she says reverently, cupping his cheek. “I asked, didn’t I?”_ _

__He laughs, a sound of pure joy and love, and then he’s closing the gap between them to kiss her. He tries to put a million different things into the kiss — love and gratitude and relief and so much happiness he feels like he’s going to burst with it. She returns the kiss with equal vigor; he thinks she understands._ _

__They stop so he can breathe, pulling back just far enough for air to fit between them. It’s only when Gamora brushes some of his tears with her thumb that he realizes he’s already crying._ _

__“Mora, why—why now?” he asks breathlessly._ _

__She tenses immediately at that, her hand shifting down to cup his jaw instead of stroking his cheek. There’s something in her expression that he doesn’t quite understand, something almost desperate. For a second he has a renewed fear that she’s about to tell him something horrible--that they need to get married now because she’s dying, or because the Stone is coming for her, or because this timeline has started to match up with one where something terrible happens very soon._ _

__“It’s not because of the silver,” she says instead, the words tumbling out so quickly that at first they sound like gibberish._ _

__They register eventually though, and he blinks in surprise. “What? What does that mean?”_ _

__“The silver,” she repeats, then forces herself to take a breath, exhaling shakily. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to ruin the moment. I just--didn’t want you to think I was only suggesting it out of obligation or compensation or--something. I _want_ to marry you. I have wanted it for a very long time.”_ _

__A breathless, joyous laugh bubbles up in him at hearing those words, even though he really already knew that she wanted to marry him, that it was never a lack of desire holding her back._ _

__“I know,” he assures her. It’s his turn to cup her cheeks, holding her face tenderly between both hands. “I never thought that was why. I just...how long?” He can’t resist asking, even though that wasn’t his original question._ _

__Gamora smiles fondly. “Before I even considered it a possibility.”_ _

__He makes a little noise because that means _a very long time_ and kisses her again. It’s softer, slower than the last one, but with every ounce of the same feeling. _ _

__“Why now?” he repeats when they part._ _

__She traces her thumb over his bottom lip. “Hearing Nebula talk about it...passing the chapel… Suddenly I was just--tired of not being married to you. I’m tired of letting that voice--Thanos’s voice--in my head tell me I don’t deserve it.”_ _

__“You do,” he says vehemently. “You deserve whatever you want.”_ _

__“Well,” she says, her smile watery, “I want to marry you.”_ _

__“Good,” says Peter, still feeling breathless and light, like he could practically float. “Good, because I wanna marry you too. I wanna marry you and I wanna scream it from the rooftops, or maybe from space.”_ _

__“People on the planet would not be able to hear you yelling from space,” she points out, but her lower lip is still wobbly with emotion, her eyes shining with a combination of hope and unshed tears._ _

__“I'll get a really big megaphone,” he teases, feeling giddy._ _

__Gamora laughs, apparently sharing that sentiment, and turning her head to kiss the pad of his thumb._ _

__Knight Rider makes his throat-clearing noise again, louder than usual. “If you two aren't too busy with your _moment_ , perhaps you could confirm for me that I should turn around and go back to the chapel? We passed it several miles ago.”_ _

__“Dude, duh,” Peter says, not taking his eyes off Gamora. “Turn around, we’re wasting time here!”_ _

__Gamora laughs again and drops her head to his shoulder. He wraps his arms around her to hug her, pulling her closer so she’s half in his lap and hugging him back tightly._ _

__“Certainly,” Knight Rider says, making a U-turn. “There is something I feel I should inform you of, though.”_ _

__“What’s that, bud?” Peter asks absently, stroking Gamora’s hair — his _fiancé’s_ hair. _ _

__“Marriage laws require that you obtain a marriage license prior to the ceremony,” Knight Rider says. “And a marriage license requires a valid social security number for both parties.”_ _

__“What the hell is a social security number?” Peter asks, kinda miffed at the car for interrupting their blissful moment with his random facts._ _

__“It is an identification number issued to those who were born or who reside in the United States,” Knight Rider explains. “The process of obtaining one if you were not assigned one at birth is...complicated.”_ _

__“So I should have one,” says Peter, his mind racing too fast on adrenaline to think things through. “Can't you look it up, Knight Rider?”_ _

__“That is not a problem,” says Knight Rider. “I have already located your social security number, but--"_ _

__“But I don't have one,” says Gamora, her face falling so quickly that it absolutely breaks his heart. “So even if we go to the chapel, we won't be able to get married.”_ _

__Peter shakes his head, suddenly desperate to fix this. “No, no, there's gotta be a way. Maybe we can forge documents, or you could use somebody else's social number!”_ _

__“ _No,_ ” she says more firmly. “I don't want to do this illegally, it's too important. If it's impossible to do it here, then I would rather wait.”_ _

__Peter bites his lip, knowing that she's right but already too eager to follow through on the idea to admit defeat. “Knight Rider, is there anything else we can do?”_ _

__Knight Rider is quiet for a while, then makes his sighing noise. “If anyone can help in this situation, it will be Mr. Stark. I will call him now.”_ _

__Peter looks down at their laced fingers, then back up at Gamora's face. She looks as anxious as he feels, but also just the tiniest bit hopeful. Suddenly he really wishes he never tried to punch Tony Stark._ _


	26. Chapter 26

“So, you’re at a chapel in Missouri,” Stark says slowly, looking only a little bemused. Peter supposes that’s a good sign: that he didn’t just laugh in their faces. “And you wanna get married. But Xena here can’t get a marriage license?” 

Gamora, looking more than a little bemused, asks Peter, “Who is Xena?” 

He shrugs and gives Stark a questioning look. Stark, or the holo image of him projecting from the dash anyway, sighs. “You have so much culture to catch up on.”

“Well, I’m kinda busy trying to marry the most amazing woman in the universe here,” Peter says, giving her shoulders a squeeze. She shakes her head, but there’s a fond, slightly shy smile dancing across her lips. “And technically we’re in the parking lot of a chapel but, yeah, that’s the gist.” 

“Okay,” Stark says easily. “I’ll take care of it.” 

“Wait, really?” Peter asks excitedly. Gamora perks up too. “How?”

Stark smirks. “Please. I’m me.” 

Peter doesn’t really know how that’s going to get them a marriage license but before he can question him, Stark continues, “All I need is Gamora’s last name.”

“I don’t have one,” she tells him. “My people didn’t use last names.” 

Peter, hearing the twinge of sadness that always invades her tone when she talks about her home world, jumps in and says, “You could use the name of one of our ships! Probably not Quadrant, that would be weird, but...Benatar? Or Milano?”

Stark blinks, looking even more bewildered than he did a moment ago. “Wait. Those are the names of your _ships_? Because...you know those are also names of people, right? Famous human people.”

Peter rolls his eyes. “Duh. How do you think the ships got those names?”

Stark opens his mouth, closes it again, then shakes his head. “Incredible.”

“What about Bacon?” asks Gamora, surprising him. That's a name he's been avoiding for the past couple days, though it's not like he's unhappy to hear it now. 

“Like the food or the actor?” asks Stark. 

“Like the food,” says Gamora. “ _And_ the great Terran hero.”

Stark looks skeptical, and Peter tenses instinctively. “We are talking about Kevin Bacon, yes? Because I hate to break it to you, Xena, but he's just an act--"

“I know everything I need to know about Kevin Bacon,” Gamora interrupts, her tone unmistakably fierce. “And I would be honored to make use of his last name.”

Peter melts a little at her protectiveness, but still waits anxiously for Stark to make some other comment, to dig in further about how weird it is because Kevin Bacon is only an actor. 

But Stark just holds his hands up in surrender and smirks. “I guess this explains why the AI for my cars is suddenly insisting on being called _Knight Rider_.” 

“ _Insisting_?” Peter says gleefully, perking up immediately. “Ha! You like the name, don’t you Knight Rider?” 

“I neither like nor dislike anything,” Knight Rider says curtly. “I am a computer program.” 

“Hey, Stark, can cars blush?” Peter asks. Gamora shakes her head, but she’s grinning too. “I’m pretty sure he’d be blushing now if he could.”

“I should make that a feature, huh Knight Rider?” Stark laughs. “Make your headlights turn on when you’re embarrassed.” 

“Whatever you wish, Mr. Stark,” the car says loftily, as if he’s above their petty human teasing. 

Gamora, either taking pity on Knight Rider or just wanting to get back on track, says, “So Stark, can you do it?” 

“What, make a car blush?” Stark grins, though there's something about it that makes Peter think he knows exactly what Gamora meant. “I can make my tech do anything I want.”

“Mr. Stark is brilliant indeed,” says Knight Rider, which immediately makes Peter suspicious. 

“Hey,” he says, aware that he's taking a sharp turn away from the original point of this conversation. “Does Knight Rider like...record things that go on in...inside him?”

Gamora looks fairly horrified, which makes him realize that sounded more disturbing than he probably intended. 

“I am of course capable of doing that, Mr. Star-Lord,” says Knight Rider. “Though I am also equipped with highly sophisticated encryption and other security procedures.”

“Don't worry, Quill,” Stark says dismissively. “I've got no interest in eavesdropping on your weirdness. Your data is coded to your biometrics only.”

“Well.” Peter clears his throat. “Thanks for not being a creeper, I guess.”

“You're welcome,” says Stark. “Now do you want me to get those papers for you? ‘Cause I'm gonna need to go make some calls if so.”

“Oh, yeah,” Peter says, then clears his throat and adds, “Please.” 

“No need to beg,” Stark says with a smirk before hanging up. 

“Do you think he can do it?” Gamora asks him immediately after the screen goes blank. 

“Definitely,” he says confidently, ignoring the voice of doubt in the back of his mind telling him that he might not be able to. “We’re gonna get married, babe, I promise.” 

“I know,” she says with a soft smile. She holds his hand between both of hers and kisses his knuckles, making him tear up all over again. “But perhaps we should accept the possibility that we may not be able to do it here.” 

He nods, biting his lip. It’s not like he thinks it’ll be the end of the world if they can’t get married today, or that she won’t still want to get married just as much if they have to wait, but Gamora had a point: this just feels _right_. She’s made _so much progress_ over the past few days -- nearly two weeks now, he realizes with a jolt. It feels like both a lifetime and the blink of an eye. 

They’ve _both_ made so much progress. And dammit, they deserve this. They deserve for one thing to just go right, to turn out not to have any disappointments to swallow. He knows that life isn’t perfect and change can be good and all those other platitudes, but this...this just needs to go well. The universe owes them for saving it. 

“Peter?” Gamora asks quietly, her voice shattering that particular reverie.

“Huh?” He glances up, sees the look of concern on her face and wonders whether he’s missed an update from Knight Rider, though he’s pretty sure he’s not _that_ distracted.

“Are you all right?” She’s still holding his hand, rubbing the back of it with both of her thumbs, clearly trying to soothe him.

“Yeah!” he says immediately, then realizes that was probably too quick and enthusiastic to sound convincing. “Yes. I mean, I was just--Hey Knight Rider, how long do you think it’ll take Stark to get back to us one way or the other?”

“Well,” says Knight Rider, “it will depend on whether or not he makes good on his promise to invent a way of making his technology blush first.”

Peter blinks, unsure whether he should be taking that seriously or not. “He wouldn’t--actually do that first, would he? He knows we’re here at the chapel, waiting on him.”

“Most likely not, but who knows?” Knight Rider says. “He may need more time to mock his other technology as well.” 

“Oh my god,” Peter laughs, exasperated and relieved. “Dude. Are you pouting because we found out you like your name?”

“Again,” Knight Rider says impatiently, “I do not have a preference as to what you call me. It merely seemed logical to only have one name, and since you are clearly not going to change your mind, I--”

“You decided to _insist_ that the guy who created you change _his_?” Peter scoffs. “Yeah, okay. Wait, what was Stark calling you anyway?”

“Tuesday.”

“Knight Rider is a much more fitting name for a vehicle, isn’t it?” Gamora says kindly. Peter feels another intense surge of fondness for her and presses a lingering kiss to her forehead. She’s actually trying to make a car feel better. God, he loves her so much. 

“Exactly!” Knight Rider says. “That is all. It’s a more fitting name.” 

“Uh-huh.” Peter shakes his head but decides to let him have this one because really, he’s got way more important things to think about right now. “So, seriously, any kind of time estimate here?” 

“Mr. Stark tends to work quickly,” says Knight Rider, his tone filled with what sounds suspiciously like pride, computer program or not. “And if I am not mistaken--Ah, I am _not_ mistaken. He is calling now. Shall I put the call through?”

“Dude, you really need to ask?” asks Peter, his heart suddenly pounding again at the thought that they’re about to get an answer. He’s been putting on the confident show for Gamora, but suddenly his doubts are taking over again, trying to tell him that he can’t have nice things, that the universe will always disappoint him, that happiness will always be lost--

“Actually,” says Knight Rider, in an infuriatingly placid tone, “I am required to ask. Since my interface with this particular vehicle is coded to your individual biometrics, I quite literally do need your permission to put Mr. Stark’s call on the comm system.”

Peter huffs with frustration, ready to jump out of his skin at the fact that they haven’t answered the call yet. What if Stark hangs up? “Yes! Yes, do it already!”

“Certainly, Mr. Star-Lord,” Knight Rider says, and then Stark’s face pops up on the holo screen again.

“Hey guys,” he says casually. “How’s it goin’?”

“Did you do it?” Peter asks, not even registering that Stark’s asked a question. 

Stark makes an exaggerated, faux-offended face. “What? No hello? No how are you?”

“Dude,” Peter says urgently, all of his previous regret at once trying to punch Stark in the face swiftly fading away.

Gamora squeezes his hand and says, “ _Stark_ ,” in a firm but polite tone; basically a ‘please’ that actually means ‘tell us or I’ll stab you.’ 

Stark sighs. “Yeah, yeah, you can get married.” 

Peter’s breath catches in his throat but he’s wary of a misunderstanding or a prank or just wanting this so badly that he’s tricking himself into hearing what he wants to hear. “Really? For real?”

“Of course really,” Stark says. “I’m not that big an asshole. St. Charles county just got quite a sizeable donation and they coincidentally decided to overlook a few things on your marriage license. Which is being faxed to the chapel you’re at right now, by the way.” 

“Wait…” Peter gapes, his mind reeling again, refusing to form words as he struggles to keep up. It’s not like he’s exactly been looking at the clock, but he’s pretty sure it hasn’t been more than a few minutes since Stark last signed off. Single digit minutes, probably. “The license is _done_? And _here_?”

“Yeah,” says Stark, more slowly. “That’s what faxing means. I’m guessing they don’t have those in space?”

“Babe!” Peter says excitedly to Gamora, ignoring that barb entirely. “We’re gonna get married. Right now!” He raises a hand for a high five, which she returns indulgently.

“I heard,” says Gamora, with a radiant little smile he recognizes as absolute elation on her part.

“Just do me a favor,” says Stark, “and never get divorced on Earth, okay? The legality of that could get--Just don’t do it.”

“No!” Peter babbles, entirely unable to stop himself. “No, no, we’d never--of course we wouldn’t.”

Stark nods, apparently satisfied, then hesitates. “Hey, while I’ve got you here, want an update on the Stones?”

Peter turns to Gamora, instantly protective.

She’s already shaking her head, though, still smiling. “No. Not today.”

* * *

He’s gonna wear a path in the carpet of this chapel, he’s sure of it; he’s been pacing in front of the bathroom Gamora’s been in for the past ten hours. 

Okay, so it’s probably been more like ten minutes, but every second that goes by without seeing her feels like an eternity. She’d wanted to change for the wedding and of course he agreed with her. Given, he probably would have agreed with anything she said today -- and most times -- but he wants to honor the occasion too. He’d already put on the best thing he’s got with him: his Han Solo shirt. 

Gamora wants her outfit to be a surprise, though. She’d taken a bag of stuff into the bathroom and shut the door and insisted he wait outside for her. 

“It is a long wait,” says the marriage dude -- priest? Peter’s not sure. He’s dressed in a suit and he’s smiling serenely, but he doesn’t really remember what a priest is supposed to look like. “But it is worth it.” 

“I know it will be,” Peter says gratefully, less for the words and more for the fact that this guy is way more chill than he was expecting. After their experience in Elmore City, he has to admit he'd been fearing the worst with yet another small town establishment. Marriage license courtesy of Stark or not, this guy could have chosen to wreck their day and Peter's immeasurably glad he didn't. 

“I'm Joe,” says the man, offering his hand warmly. “I always think I'll wait and introduce myself to the couple together but then half the time the bride's gettin’ ready for quite a while and, well, it's just real awkward to be chattin’ with someone you haven't officially met.”

“Peter,” he says, returning the handshake. “Quill.” It's the first time in a long while that he hasn't been tempted to ask a new acquaintance to call him Star-Lord. That just feels like a different part of his life altogether now.. 

“Nice to meet you, Peter,” says Joe. “Now why don't you tell me how you and your beautiful bride met?”

He could practically float with joy at the casual use of the word ‘bride,’ but the question is challenging enough to ground him. He considers before choosing his words. “Um. We met on a...business trip.”

“Oh, that’s lovely,” Joe says, sounding sincere and just...politely interested, which is nice but strange. He’s already seen Gamora, so he definitely knows that she isn’t from Earth, but he’d never guess it from the way he’s talking. “What sorta business are you two in?”

“Uh...contract work,” Peter says. “We pick up jobs. Lots of traveling.” Again, as much as he’d normally like to use this opportunity to not-so-subtly brag about their galaxy-saving record, the last thing he wants is for this to turn into a situation anything like New York. While he doesn’t think Joe would be like that, or that he would even really care, judging by his behavior so far, he’s not about to take that chance on his and Gamora’s _wedding day_.

Just thinking that phrase makes him glow. 

“Well, that’s fascinating,” Joe says. “I’m a homebody myself.”

Peter’s about to respond when he hears the bathroom door open behind him and he whips around so quickly he almost makes himself dizzy. Then he instantly freezes, gasping out loud when Gamora emerges. 

His eyes are drawn to her hair first, always the most perfect, gorgeous hair in the entire universe. Now she’s outdone herself though. 

It’s woven into the sort of loose braid that manages to look simultaneously effortless and intricate. The kind that will only ever be able to come from her fingers, her expertise, no matter how much she might try to teach him or how much he might practice. The colors alone are stunning, the way the strands of darker purple and lighter pink contrast even more than usual. And then there are the ornaments woven in--It takes him another moment to recognize the flowers from the Blue Daisy, looking impossibly more delicate, more exquisite than they were in the store. She’s wearing the matching earrings too, he sees, and then--

Then his gaze finally strays down to the rest of her outfit. She’s wearing her nicest pair of black leather pants--the ones without any obvious scuffs or tears--and her Princess Leia shirt. She’s perfect, he thinks. Beyond _perfect._ The most incredible woman in the galaxy, sure, but also...his. Because she’s worked at being that. Because they both have worked at belonging to one another.

“Oh my god,” Peter breathes, vaguely aware of the tears streaming down his face. “Oh my god, babe, your _shirt._ ”

“Something I love,” she breathes, running her fingers over the hair ornaments, feather light. Then she makes the same motion to her shirt. “Something _you_ love. That is my people’s marriage tradition.”

He bites his lip to choke back a sob; he’s semi-successful. 

Behind him, he hears Joe say, “I’ll give you a moment,” then back away a bit into the main area of the chapel. Peter doesn’t acknowledge him or turn around though, doesn’t think he could take his eyes off Gamora if he tried. 

“Mora,” he breathes. Suddenly he can’t stand the small amount of distance between them and he closes it in two strides, cupping her face in his hands. He wipes away the tears on her cheeks. “That’s a beautiful tradition.”

Gamora covers his hands with hers, her smile radiant and joyful and full of love. “Technically, the tradition is to wear or do something that makes your partner the most silver…” 

That reference, which only a day or two ago would have set his heart racing, doesn’t even faze him right now. He’s pretty sure nothing could. 

“But you can’t exactly tie me to the bedpost in public, can you?” he whispers.

“ _Peter_!” she laughs, a few more tears spilling over. God, she’s perfect. 

“Is there anything I can do?” he asks earnestly. “For the tradition?”

Gamora considers, then shakes her head. “You’ve already got the matching shirt, which I love. Just--be you.” She pauses, the corners of her lips twitching before another tiny giggle escapes. “In lieu of being tied to a bedpost.”

“Does the tradition also apply to the wedding night?” asks Peter, suddenly even more interested in these customs. “Because we could _totally_ do that tonight. We’ll ask Knight Rider to find us a hotel with really sturdy bedposts, go to town.”

“Peter,” she groans, shaking her head, but she’s still laughing, a few tears of joy still spilling over, and he feels positively triumphant.

“Do you remember anything else about Zehoberei wedding customs?” he asks, cautious as always about bringing up the subject. It seems important, though, and he doesn’t want her to feel like she has to bury the memories now. “Is there supposed to be, like, family there? Or a specific kind of priest?”

“It was very private,” says Gamora. “As all intimate things are in my culture. So in that way, this is especially fitting.”

“Good.” He grins and kisses her forehead. 

“What about you?” she asks, leaning into his touch. “Does Earth have any wedding traditions we can honor?” 

He considers, trying to remember movies and shows he’d watched where there was a wedding. He pictures the ceremony; a woman dressed in a huge white dress and a man in a fancy suit, standing in front of the official looking person and saying stuff to each other. There was also kissing, which at the time he’d always looked away from. 

“I think there’s flowers,” he says slowly, then smiles at hers. “So you’ve got that. And then you’re supposed to tell each other why you love each other in front of the priest guy, or like make some kind of promise, while you’re holding hands.” He takes both of hers demonstratively. “But I know you’re private, so we don’t need to do that. I will be happy with absolutely anything you wanna do.” 

“I would go on the holo network and declare to the entire universe that I love you if you wished,” Gamora says vehemently. “And that I will be with you for as long as I live. I make no secret about that.” 

“I know,” says Peter, cupping her face again and tracing her lower lip with the pad of a shaking thumb. He’s aware of the meaning behind those words, how important it is for her feel that way, to admit it, to say it aloud. It’s not like he’s ever doubted her love, but he knows she’s accustomed to living under the shadow of Thanos, the constant threat of him becoming collateral in some sort of war for control of Gamora’s life. He’s been living under it too, indirectly, though he’s not sure he’s ever fully realized it until now. 

It’s especially meaningful, he realizes, that she’s willing to declare it to the universe immediately after everything they’ve been through, immediately after her love’s been used against her in such an incredibly cruel way. 

“What else?” asks Gamora, seeming to sense the shift in his thoughts. “Anything else that you remember?”

“There were traditions involving parents,” says Peter, then shakes himself. “But that’s--that’s not important right now.”

She lifts their joined hands to kiss the backs of his. “Tell me.” 

“Your parents usually walk with you down the aisle.” He points through the open door that leads to the rest of the chapel, where there’s a strip of carpet between some chairs. Joe is waiting patiently at the end of it. 

“Oh,” Gamora says softly. “That is nice… I wish my parents could have been here for this.”

“Me too,” he chokes. His mother would have loved to see him get married, he’s sure, especially to someone as amazing as Gamora. Yondu would have stuck his nose up at the idea of marriage but he’d have been happy for him on the inside. “But _we_ are both here...” 

He takes a deep breath in an attempt to get his waterworks under control, then quickly realizes that’s a futile endeavor. He lets go of her hands and steps far enough back to offer her his arm. “So let’s get married, huh?” 

Every second he thinks her smile can’t possibly get more gorgeous and radiant, and yet here she is proving him wrong yet again. She could light the whole planet with it. “Let’s get married,” she says, curling her arm through his. 

The aisle is short -- far shorter than he’s seen in movies, or than he’s imagined on the occasions when he’s allowed himself to fantasize about actually marrying Gamora. Those visions have always included a lavish ceremony, usually on Xandar, including a giant venue and an audience of grateful civilians cheering on the marriage of their most favorite rockstars-slash-galaxy-savers. 

This is nothing like that, of course. But it’s real, and it’s happening, and it’s so perfect that he can’t believe he ever imagined anything different. He scarcely feels the floor under his feet, like he might as well be floating through that distance. He’s acutely aware of Gamora’s arm through his, though, and the hitch in her breathing that tells him this is every bit as sacred to her as it is to him. 

That is, until they get to the end of the aisle and the moment is shattered by the sound of a cell phone ringing. It’s a generic enough sound and Peter’s too high on emotion to think whether it’s familiar or not.

“Dude!” he says to Joe, trying not to get angry, though his tone is most definitely judgmental. What kind of priest--or whatever he is--lets a wedding ceremony get interrupted by their cell phone, anyway?

“Sir--” Joe begins, probably about to make some kind of excuse.

“C’mon, turn it off,” Peter interrupts, but then Gamora silences him by laying her free hand on his forearm, all without letting go.

“Babe, it’s yours.”

He curses under his breath, digging it out of his pocket to find that it is, in fact, his phone that’s ringing. Peter clicks the symbol to answer the call without even reading the ID, prepared to give whoever it is a piece of his mind. 

But then he’s greeted by a screen filled with Mantis’s face, her expression and her antennae alight with childlike excitement. “You got married!”

“What?” Peter sputters. “How did--oh. Stark.”

Rocket pops up next to Mantis, glaring at him. “Yeah, Stark told us you a-holes got married without telling us!”

“I am Groot!” He appears, pouting, on Mantis’s other side. 

“Yes!” Drax agrees, shoving the three of them partially out of frame when as he tries to get his face in. “You are supposed to tell your family these things!” 

Gamora winces, looking suddenly guilty, and Peter is not about to have that on their wedding day. 

“Guys, we did not get married,” he says. “...Yet. We’re about to.” 

“And were you about to _invite_ us?” Rocket asks, though it’s not really a question. He’s finally taken the phone from Mantis and adjusted it so they’re all visible, and he’s still glaring at them. 

Peter rolls his eyes. “Could you have gotten over here in two minutes? This wasn’t planned, okay? We got engaged like an hour ago and we didn’t wanna wait.” He pans the phone around so they can see more of the chapel behind him, and Joe, who waves pleasantly, looking only mildly surprised at seeing all these aliens staring back at him. 

Peter settles the phone so he and Gamora are both in frame, and Mantis gasps. “Gamora! Your hair looks beautiful!” 

Gamora beams. “Thank you.” 

“Oh, you are both very happy,” Mantis says, tears in her eyes. Even Rocket softens at that. 

“Your powers work through the phone?” Peter asks, surprised.

“No,” she says simply. “But I don't need them to see how happy you are. It is very apparent.”

“I agree,” says Drax, pushing his way closer to the screen again even though they're all fully in the picture. “Even a fool could see.”

“Well there ain’t no fools here,” says Rocket. “Except maybe _these_ idiots who thought they could get married without so much as tellin’ us. After all these years of puttin’ up with your mushy stuff all over the ship.”

“I am Groot,” says Groot, and Rocket turns to glare at him. 

“I am _not_ bein’ sentimental.”

Peter grins. “Yeah, you kinda are.”

“Well,” says Drax, “it is fortunate that you have not yet completed the ceremony. Now we can watch!”

“Um,” says Peter, glancing at Gamora. He doesn't want her to feel guilty, or to violate her own culture's tradition out of some misguided sense of obligation. “I don't know if--"

“Yes,” Gamora interrupts. “We are family. They should bear witness.”

“Are you sure?” he whispers. “You don’t have to—“

“Close family was allowed to witness if the couple wanted,” she whispers back, then louder, “And I want them to.” 

“Oh, yay!” Mantis claps and attempts to hug the phone. Rocket grumbles as he pries the phone away from her. Groot gives them a genuine smile, not a video game in sight. 

“Yes!” Drax cheers. “Marriage ceremonies are beautiful! I will be honored to witness the bonding ceremony.” 

_Bondage is for after the ceremony,_ Peter thinks to himself, and barely manages not to giggle. Gamora seems to know where his mind goes anyway, because she nudges him. She’s still smiling, though, has scarcely stopped smiling since they found out this was going to happen. He knows he’s been the same; his cheeks positively ache. 

“Do you wanna call Nebula?” he asks quietly, as it suddenly occurs to him that if the others are going to watch, she’d probably want her sister included too. 

“Oh,” says Gamora. “Good idea. Though I can only imagine her reaction after her comments earlier.”

Peter’s grin turns devious. “That's totally gonna be the best part!”

Gamora shakes her head, but she digs her phone out of her back pocket and deftly scrolls through the menus. It takes her only a few seconds to dial, but then the tone seems to go on forever. Peter's about to suggest that maybe they should just move on with the ceremony when finally Nebula's face appears on the screen, looking anything but pleased.

“Is this an emergency?” she demands, not giving anyone a chance to speak. “Are you under attack? In imminent danger?”

“No,” says Gamora, “but we’re--"

“Then I don't care,” Nebula interrupts. “I am in the middle of an interrogation. On your behalf. Leave me alone to do my work.” Then she hangs up without another word. 

For a moment all any of them do is stare at the now blank phone, before Peter says, “That’s about what I expected.”

Gamora laughs, shaking her head fondly. “Yes, that is my sister.”

“Are you okay with this?” Peter asks; here he was before worried about her privacy, now he’s afraid their audience is one person too small. 

“Yes,” she says firmly, squeezing his arm. “She will care only that we tried, not whether we succeeded.” 

“I will film it for her!” Mantis declares, taking someone else’s phone -- Rocket’s, judging by his sound of protest -- and pointing it at them through this phone. 

Peter has no idea if that’s going to work but he can’t bring himself to care, not when he could have been married to Gamora like five minutes ago. 

“Let’s get this wedding on the road!” he says eagerly, setting his phone down in the large planter next to the altar so the others can still see, but he can have his focus completely on the most amazing woman in the universe, standing next from him and smiling at him like _he’s_ the most amazing thing she’s ever seen. 

“Sorry about that,” Peter says to Joe, realizing that they’re taking a lot of his time. He’s not sure how long this type of Terran wedding is really supposed to take, though he’s guessing less time than the elaborate ceremonies he remembers from movies. Probably also less time than this whole spectacle’s taken so far. As nice as Joe is, he doesn’t want to push their luck, particularly now that they’ve got a peanut gallery of aliens watching from his phone.

“Don’t worry about it,” Joe says warmly. “What’s a wedding without a little family drama?”

“Oh, we got plenty of that,” says Rocket, from the phone.

Joe laughs good-naturedly. “All right. So, all ready to get married?”

Peter glances at Gamora again, then nods. “I think so!”

“You got rings?” asks Joe.

That, of course, makes Peter wince, realizing immediately that he’s managed to forget about that tradition entirely, despite how important it is. It’s not like he hasn’t thought about it. He’s thought about getting Gamora a ring _a lot_ , in fact. But she’s always been so afraid of the idea of marriage, of the ways it could be used against her, that he’s stopped short of actually doing it. 

“No,” he sighs, hoping irrationally that she won’t see this as a failure.

“Well, that’s all right!” says Joe. “Plenty of people who come through here don’t! That just means you get to pick ‘em out together later on.”

“My culture doesn’t include rings in wedding traditions anyway,” says Gamora.

Peter blinks--somehow he’s spent most of his life assuming that rings were just, like, a universal tradition. “Wait, really?”

“Really,” she assures him. “My tradition is for married people to wear a hair ornament that is silver.”

“Oh!” He grins. “We can definitely get you one of those!”

Joe nods, that settled. “All right, great. Next question: Do you have vows prepared?”

“Oh, vows!” he says enthusiastically. “That’s what they’re called! That’s the promise part I told you about.” 

“We didn’t prepare anything, though,” she whispers, apparently concerned. 

“That’s okay!” Peter assures her. He turns to Joe. “That is okay, right? We can just wing it.” 

“Of course,” he says. “We also have a set of prepared vows if you don’t want to use your own.”

“No, we’ll do our own,” Peter says quickly. This should be special and personal for her, for both of them. “As long as that’s what you want?”

“It is,” Gamora says, firm in her answer even though he senses she’s a little bit nervous. But honestly, he’s a little nervous too. Everything he ever saw about weddings made it seem like this promising-making is the most important part and he really doesn’t want to mess it up. 

“And we hold hands while we do it, right?” he asks Joe.

“Most people do,” Joe says, chuckling. “But you don’t have to if you don’t want to.”

“When do they not wanna hold hands?” Rocket mutters, followed by several shushing noises from the others. 

Gamora slides her hands off his arm and down to grasp both of his, so they’re standing facing each other with their clasped hands between them. For a moment, he forgets what he’s supposed to be doing, so lost in the way she looks and the way she’s looking at him and the beauty of this thing that’s happening. 

“Who would like to go first?” Joe finally prompts. 

“Oh, I will!” Peter says, both because he knows Gamora gets nervous about doing things properly and because he’s about ready to burst. 

“Excellent,” Joe says. “Peter, your vows.”

“Okay.” He takes a shaky breath, heedless of the tears that have begun falling again, and centers his gaze on her. “Gamora, I could probably stand here for weeks-- _years_ and I would never even come close to covering all the stuff I wanna promise you. I wanna promise you everything. But here’s a start.” 

She squeezes his hands encouragingly, water welling up in her eyes again. 

“I promise...to take care of you,” he says slowly, really wanting to choose every word. “I’ll do my best to get you everything you deserve, anything you ever want. I will always supply you with chocolate and bubble baths and breakfast in bed. I’ll even do the less fun stuff, like try to pick up my dirty clothes more.”

Gamora raises an eyebrow but it’s a very half-hearted attempt at an incredulous look, as she’s grinning and giggling and crying all at the same time. 

“Hey,” he giggles right back. “You gotta admit I’ve gotten better about that.”

“You have,” she says warmly, her voice cracking with emotion. She sounds almost like she did on Knowhere, telling him she loved him more than anything, but so, so much happier; not like this is the last thing she’ll ever say to him, but the start of a lot more. 

“It’s because I’d do anything for you,” he says earnestly. “And even stuff like laundry and cleaning is better because of you. Because I have you.”

He chooses his next words carefully, mindful of the audience watching through his phone and how much Gamora may or may not want them to know. 

“And I _promise_ ,” he breathes, “that no matter what color you are, or what happens in the future, that I will love you more than anything in the entire universe. And I’ll spend my whole life showing you that.” 

“I know you will,” she whispers, a couple of tears falling as she bends to kiss the backs of his hands.

“That was beautiful,” Joe says quietly. 

“I am Groot,” says Groot, from the phone. 

“No, this does not mean you get to leave your flippin vines and leaves lyin’ around!” says Rocket. 

Joe laughs softly, but doesn't respond directly to that, keeping his attention on the ceremony. “Gamora, your vows?”

She nods and squeezes his hands. The deep breath she takes before speaking is almost as shaky as his. “I want--to say that I don’t know how to do this. So much of my life, I thought it was impossible to have anything for myself but--pain. I didn’t even think it was possible for me to feel love, but you--You came into my life and you made me feel things, and you just _would not stop._ ”

“Yeah,” Peter admits, sniffling. “Yeah, I am a stubborn a-hole.”

Gamora shakes her head. “So--I still might not know how to do everything, but I promise I will keep trying to learn.”

“You always do,” he whispers. “You’re the best at learning.”

“I promise to dance with you,” she says with an indulgent smile. “And to listen to any music you please. I promise to watch movies with you, and kiss you in the rain. I promise not to murder you for your terrible jokes. And to save you at least _some_ of the chocolate.”

“Oh,” Peter interjects, though he knows he’s talking a lot for _her_ vows, just can’t stop himself from babbling with how goddamn _perfect_ she is. “You _do_ love me.”

“I promise to take care of you too,” she continues. “And to let you take care of me, when that is the right thing for both of us. I promise that I--I love you more than _eternity_. And I promise I will continue to live that, even if it’s scary at times. Even if it might be painful. I _promise._ ”

He chokes on a sob, like he’s actually _bursting_ with joy. She’s finished her vows and as much as he talked through the rest of them he suddenly can’t make words, can only nod over and over and smile hard enough to crack his face. He wants to kiss her too but he knows that part comes later. For now he mouths, _’I love you’_ and imitates her, bending to kiss her knuckles. 

“That was beautiful as well,” Joe says, after a polite pause. “There are only a couple of steps left. Are you ready to be married?”

“ _Yes_ ,” Gamora says vehemently. Peter nods vigorously once again, vibrating with excitement. 

“Excellent.” Joe says. “Do you, Peter Quill, take this woman to be your lawfully wedded wife?” 

“Yes!” Peter says, managing to get words out at last. “Yes, yes!” Then suddenly he remembers this part too, the words that they always said on TV, and he practically shouts, “I do!” 

Joe chuckles and turns to Gamora next, whose smile contains all the happy and beautiful emotions in the universe. “Do you, Gamora Bacon--”

Neither of them can contain their giggles at that, though he tries. Gamora is doing better, but she’s clearly entertained as well. He really didn’t expect Stark to go through with that, but he’s delighted that he did. 

“Oh!” Mantis squeals from the phone. “Like Kevin Bacon!”

“Shhhh,” says Drax. “It is obviously not her real name. It is a disguise!”

“ _Guys,_ ” Peter hisses, glaring at the phone. It's not like he can stop them from saying it now, or stop Joe from hearing. Still, he can do something to make them stop before it gets any worse. “Shush. You're the audience, not the commentators.”

“The what?” asks Mantis, louder.

“He said be quiet!” Drax booms, putting a hand over her mouth. 

Mantis’s antennae glow, and then her eyes widen. She pulls away from Drax and motions zipping her own lips. 

“Sorry,” Peter says to Joe. 

Fortunately, Joe's smile remains good-natured. “I understand family of all kinds.”

“Please, continue,” says Gamora. 

“Do you, Gamora Bacon, take this man to be your lawfully wedded husband?”

“I do,” she whispers, her voice hoarse with emotion. 

“Then by the power vested in me,” Joe says, “by the state of Missouri, I now pronounce you husband and wife. You may kiss the bride.”

Peter doesn’t need to be told twice. With a joyful sound, he drops her hands to cup her face and kiss her with everything he has. Gamora’s hands are on his face too and he feels love, so much pure love from her and for her, and also for the goofballs he’s only dimly aware of cheering and clapping from the phone. 

It’s not the most elegant kiss; their cheeks are wet, they can barely keep their lips together because of how wide they’re both smiling, but it’s perfect, so perfect. He’s kissing his _wife_! 

“Gamora,” he breathes when they part. He rests his forehead against hers. “We’re married!” 

“We are,” she agrees, kissing him again, short and sweet. 

“That was beautiful!” Mantis wails. He turns his head just slightly, keeping contact with Gamora, to see the phone. Mantis is crying almost as hard as they are, her arms around the others, antennae alight. 

“Yes!” Drax agrees, still clapping. “Even though I thought the ceremony would involve more shows of strength. Or combat skills.” 

“No, no,” says Peter. “That's not how Terran--how Earth weddings work.”

“Nor Zehobereian weddings,” says Gamora. 

“I thought your people were mighty warriors!” says Drax. 

Gamora sighs, though it's affectionate. She's had this conversation with Drax plenty of times but it's never managed to really get through. “That is what Thanos made me, not my people as a whole.”

“What about those rings?” Rocket breaks in. “What's that about?”

“Um,” says Peter, realizing suddenly that he doesn't exactly know why rings are a tradition, just that they _are._ “Terran couples exchange rings when they get married because--that's just what they do.”

“Wedding bands are circular, so they have no beginning and no end,” Joe says helpfully. “They're intended as a symbol of eternal love.”

“Oh, then I definitely want to follow that tradition!” says Gamora, sounding much more excited about it than she did during the ceremony. 

“So, what?” Rocket says, apparently unimpressed. “Are they hoity-toity, fancy rings or something? Do they do anything?” 

“No, they’re just--rings,” Peter says slowly. He looks to Joe for clarification. 

“They are generally made out of a metal,” Joe explains. “Such as gold or platinum. And they usually have no adornments, though some couples choose to engrave theirs.” 

“Are you flarging kidding me?” Rocket makes an exaggerated noise of disgust. “Don’t waste your units on that.”

Gamora wants them, though, and now that he knows that, there’s nothing that’s gonna stop them from getting rings. He’d just promised to get her anything she wants, after all. 

“We’re getting those rings, Rocket.”

Rocket rolls his eyes. “I never said you ain’t getting them. I said don’t spend money on them.” 

Peter blinks, too distracted by the fact that he’s married, to Gamora, his _wife_ , who’s now leaning her head against his chest with her arms around his waist, to understand the implication. 

Gamora, the smartest, best, most amazing person in the universe, understands though. “Rocket. Are you offering to get us a gift?” 

Rocket wrinkles his nose. “I'm offerin’ to save you some units. Don't start thinkin’ I'm a romantic like Quill.”

“Quill is for certain the most pathetic and emotional of us all,” says Drax, reassuringly. 

“Guys,” Peter sighs for what feels like the umpteenth time, though all he feels for any of them right now is love. “And you're totally offering us a present. Which we accept. Wedding gifts _are_ a tradition here, right Joe?”

“Generally speaking yes,” says Joe, though his tone is decidedly noncommittal. “Though the couple may choose whether to ask for them or not.”

“Well, then consider them asked for!” says Peter, doing a triumphant fist pump. 

“I did _not_ say I'd be buyin’ you rings,” Rocket says one final time. “I just said don't go wasting _your_ units on ‘em!”

“I _love_ presents,” Mantis says dreamily. 

“Well, good thing we got you some!” Peter says, picking up the phone. “But me and Gamora are technically on our honeymoon now, so we gotta go! Love you!”

Mantis, antennae still glowing, says, “We all love you too!”

* * *

A few minutes later, they’re running hand in hand through the parking lot, giggling like giddy kids -- or like giddy newlyweds. It’s _officially_ official now, since Joe made them sign the marriage certificate. Apparently they’re going to get a copy of that sent to the Compound, but Peter insisted on taking a picture of it anyway. 

“Hello, Mrs. Quill,” Peter says gleefully, stopping outside Knight Rider to kiss her again. 

Gamora makes a happy noise against his lips. “Hello, Mr…” 

“Mr. Gamora,” he supplies helpfully. 

She giggles. “Mr. Gamora.”

“Or Mr. Bacon, if you prefer.” 

“As much as I love that name,” she says, rubbing her hand affectionately against his cheek, “I think I will stick with Quill. Assuming you don’t mind I adopt that as my last name.”

“Mind?” he asks breathlessly. “ _Mind?_ Gamora, you have no idea how much I've fantasized about this.”

“Oh really?” she says, a bit deviously. 

Peter blinks. “Wait, do you?”

“I don't know,” she says casually. “I may have found a notebook or two where _somebody_ doodled pages of ‘Mr. and Mrs. Quill’ and ‘Mrs. Gamora Quill.’ Not to mention all of the hearts with our initials in them.”

Peter feels himself flush immediately, skin aflame from his cheeks down to his chest. He scratches at the back of his neck. “What? I don't know what you--what that was. Must have been Groot!”

“Peter,” she sighs, shaking her head. “Why lie to me? I know who I married.”

“Right,” he says dopily, almost like he's drunk. “It was _me._ ”

“That’s right, Mr. Gamora,” she says, winding her arms around his neck. “And I happen to like your doodles.”

“Yeah?” He grins, then turns more serious. “And you do wanna use my last name, right? Because you don’t have to. Being married to you will be just as amazing if you don’t and I totally understand--”

She kisses him, which is his absolute favorite method that she uses to shut him up. 

“Yes,” she says firmly when she pulls away. “Not all the time. Sometimes I will keep with my people’s custom and just be Gamora. On occasions when I need a last name, or want one, I will be Gamora Quill. But I will always be your wife.” 

“I will always be your husband,” he whispers, kissing her again, then resting his forehead against hers. He puts his hands on her hips and he doesn’t mean to, but it’s instinct by now: he starts swaying, moving them gently to no music at all. 

Then he gasps. “Wait! There’s another wedding tradition!” 

Gamora leans back ever so slightly, arching an eyebrow. “Just one?”

Peter snorts. “Okay, yeah, fair point. I’m sure there’s, like, at least a billion I’m forgetting. But _this_ one is really important, and we should do it right now.”

“Are you going to tell me what it is?” she teases. “Or just keep building the suspense?”

“It...is…” He speaks as slowly as he can manage, which isn’t very much with how excited he is. “...dance...ing. Dancing! We have to have an official first dance as a married couple.”

“That sounds awfully convenient,” says Gamora, her face and voice still full of blissful affection. “Are you sure you aren’t making it up?”

“I am not!” he says mock-indignantly, then realizes they’re standing right by the car. “Hey, Knight Rider!” He presses the button to fire up the A.I.

“Yes, Mr. Gamora?” 

Peter blinks, partly because it’s weird to hear the voice coming from outside the car, though of course that’s what he’s wanted it to do. “You know what? I dig it. You can call me that all you want.”

“Excellent, Mr. Gamora,” says Knight Rider, sounding smug. “Now, did you have a request for me?”

“Oh, right.” Peter clears his throat, making his tone official. “Knight Rider, is it traditional for a newly married couple to dance on Earth?”

“Yes,” says Knight Rider. “It is a tradition in many cultures for the couple to perform a first dance at the reception following the ceremony.”

“See?” Peter asks triumphantly, grinning at Gamora. “It’s a tradition.”

She nods, accepting it easily. “Then I guess we had better follow it.”

He does a quick fist pump. “Yes!” Then he makes his voice as theatrical as possible. “Knight Rider! Play ‘Dance with Me’ by Orleans!”

Gamora looks slightly taken aback as the song starts. “You already had a song in mind?”

“Babe,” says Peter, offering his arm gallantly, “I’ve had this song in mind since, like....okay, since I got the Zune, since I kinda forgot about it until then. But I’ve been thinking about songs for us for way longer!”

_Dance with me, I want to be your partner; can’t you see the music is just starting?_ come the lyrics, as Gamora takes his arm, then leans in to rest her head against his chest. _Night is calling, and I am falling, dance with me._

“You’re perfect,” she breathes, running her hand along his side absently, swaying in time with the beat like she was born to do it. 

Peter closes his eyes, leaning his cheek against the top of her head, and falls for her all over again, infinitely.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is one of the big moments we were most excited about writing, one of the first things we knew was going to happen when we started planning this fic, and we're very excited that you guys finally got to read it :)


	27. Chapter 27

“We are approaching St. Charles,” Knight Rider informs them, jarring Peter out of the blissful reverie he’d been in for--he doesn’t even know how long. Gamora -- his _wife_! Who he’s _married to_! -- is cuddled up against him, her head on his shoulder and her hand absently stroking his side. For his part, he’s been so focused on admiring her new silver hair bead that he’s completely failed to notice how close they’ve gotten to their destination. 

He tears his gaze away from Gamora’s hair to focus on what’s outside the car. There’s not much of note so far; just a fairly busy road with a lot of businesses on either side.There’s nothing that’s either a carbon copy of his childhood memories or a desecration of them. Instead, there’s just a vague sense of _seen this before_ that tickles the back of his mind. 

“I think we must have driven this way a few times,” he says slowly. “When we went somewhere outside town. These roads look familiar. I don’t think there was quite this much stuff here, though.” 

There still isn’t a ton -- it’s not like this is New York -- but there’s definitely more fast food restaurants than he ever remembers seeing as a child. 

“Is that a bad thing?” Gamora asks. Her hand on his side shifts to a purposeful, comforting touch. 

He considers, trying again to picture things the way they were. The only memory that really comes to mind is stopping by the Dairy Queen with his mom. After school, at first. Especially when the bullies were particularly bad or he’d failed another test because the words wouldn’t stop moving around on the page, letters turning backward. Then later, on the way back from her appointments at the hospital. Later still, with his grandfather, after visits to the hospital. He’s not exactly sure where it is, but he has a feeling that it was on this road back then.

“Peter?” she prompts gently, finding his fingers and twining them with hers, then squeezing his hand lightly.

He shakes himself. “I don’t know. It’s--It’s not really either, you know? Part of me wants it to be exactly the way it was when I lived here. I kinda want it to stay that way forever. But it’s not like that would--” He breaks off, swallowing.

She waits patiently, running the pad of her thumb over the back of his hand.

“It’s not like that would bring my mom back,” he says finally.

“It wouldn’t,” Gamora agrees. She kisses his shoulder. “Her memory lives inside you.”

“Yeah… Not like we can keep stuff from changing, anyway.” 

_Some_ things haven’t changed though, which he discovers a few minutes later when they turn onto a different road. This one is much smaller, only one lane each way, and there’s hardly any other cars on it. Nor is there much to see besides trees, grass, and the occasional building -- mostly houses, but a couple smaller businesses here and there, like a feed store and a much smaller general store.

“We used to go there sometimes,” he says, pointing to the general store. It’s rickety and looks like it hasn’t changed in a hundred years, but there’s two cars parked there. “My grandpa knew the owners. The old lady used to give me a lollipop every time we went.” 

“That sounds lovely,” she says with a little smile. 

He nods absently, craning his neck to try to see it again, but it’s already out of view. The road begins to narrow even more now, until there aren’t even marked lanes, and barely enough room for two cars to fit at once. There’s fields on either side of them now, with a few farm houses and a lot of cows. 

“Do cowboys live here?” Gamora asks, breaking into his thoughts and his rapt attention to the scenery outside.

He feels oddly disoriented, like he’s been interrupted mid-conversation, though he can’t even really identify what he’s been thinking about. He turns away from the window to look at her, which requires leaning back a bit since she’s still curled up practically in his lap. “Huh?”

“Cowboys,” she repeats. “Do they live in this area?”

“No,” says Peter, still confused. “I--why would they?”

Gamora’s brow furrows ever so slightly, an expression he can clearly read as her reaction when he’s missed something obvious. “There are cows. And you grew up here wanting to be a cowboy, did you not?”

“Oh,” he says, thinking through the logic of that. It makes sense, he realizes, from a distinctly non-Terran point of view. Then again, that’s just about always the case when Gamora gets confused by one of his Earth references. “No, cowboys don’t--always work with cows. Sometimes it’s just farmers, like here. I just grew up watching them in movies.”

“Are farmers not also cowboys then?” she asks. “As they work with cows.” 

“Yeah, I guess if you look at it that way,” he says, tensing suddenly when they go down a hill and the scenery begins to change, shifting from huge farms with sprawling fields to much smaller ones. The houses come closer together now and soon, he remembers with perfect clarity, one side is going to turn into a series of suburban streets. 

“Are you okay?” Gamora asks, rubbing his side. 

“Yeah,” he says slowly. They’re coming up to a curve in the road, past which they can’t see anything yet. “Our street is coming up. The one me and my mom lived on.” 

“Oh,” she breathes. “Do you want to--?”

“No,” he says quickly, cutting her off before she can even finish the question. “Not--not yet.” Maybe not ever. “I don’t wanna see it. Let’s do this first.”

She nods, kisses his shoulder. “Okay. Relax. We’re not gonna see anything if you don’t want to.”

Peter takes a shaky breath, unable to help noticing that Knight Rider has slowed momentarily as if preparing to divert their course. He speeds up again without comment, seeming to realize that it isn't going to happen right now. 

He forces himself to exhale as the street recedes in the rearview mirror, takes her hand and squeezes it gently instead of digging his fingers into the remnants of injury still present on his palm, which has reached the point in healing that he no longer needs a bandage on it. 

“Sorry,” he says slowly, mostly out of instinct. His heart feels like it's beating especially heavily in his chest now that the adrenaline is starting to ebb a bit. It doesn’t ebb too much, though. They're still headed toward his grandpa's farm. 

“For what?” asks Gamora, kissing his knuckles and making him think of their wedding. 

He shakes his head. “I don't--I don't know. I'm just--sorry. That I didn't come back sooner, that I still kinda want to be anywhere else.” He breaks off again, then blurts out a memory he hasn't acknowledged in a while. “Leaving that house sucked. My mom had to sell it to pay for her treatment.”

“Oh, Peter,” she breathes. “You’ve said you had to live with your grandfather for a while.” 

“Yeah.” He sighs heavily, the memory weighing on him even now. “That was why. It was just for those last couple months. My grandpa helped out when he could, but he wasn’t exactly rich either. And my mom couldn’t work once things got really bad. So.” He shrugs. 

“You always speak fondly of that house,” she says softly. 

He nods, irritated at the tears that spring to his eyes even after all these years. “I loved it. It was really small, but it was ours. My mom tried to make grandpa’s house feel like home too, but it was never the same. And she had to stay in the hospital a lot, so she wasn’t even there a lot of the time.” 

“I know your grandfather wasn’t the warmest individual,” Gamora prompts. 

“He did try sometimes,” he says. “But we didn’t like the same music or the same movies or shows. He watched stuff with me sometimes but I could tell he didn’t like it. And there was always that--shadow hanging over our heads. It was hard not to think about why my mom wasn’t there.” 

“I imagine you might have resented him for needing to be there in her place,” she says. 

“Yeah,” says Peter, swallowing and allowing himself to remember. He's blocked out a lot of the parts after his mother got sick. “Sometimes I felt like--you know, if he wasn't there, then she would be and everything would be okay. I know it doesn't make any sense.”

“I understand, though,” she says earnestly, and he believes her. 

“I used to run away from him when it was time to leave the hospital,” he admits. “One time--One time he got so mad, he told me I was lucky I didn't get kidnapped. I said I'd be better off if I had.”

The ghost of a smile passes over her face and he nods. 

“Yeah, I know. Ironic.”

“I’m sure he didn’t mean that,” Gamora says. 

“Yeah, probably,” he admits, though instinctual doubt creeps into his mind. “I guess we’ll find out.” 

Everything is getting even more familiar now. He doesn’t need Knight Rider to announce that they’re turning onto Stonebrook Street, but he doesn’t have the will to snark at him about it right now. 

“Tell me when you figure out which house it is,” Knight Rider says, driving slowly down the street. For once there’s no edge of sarcasm in his tone. 

Peter nods, every muscle in his body on edge as he watches the houses out the window. They’re pretty far apart, though not so far apart that you can’t see at least one neighboring house from each. 

“What does his house look like?” Gamora asks. 

“Uh, white, I think,” he says, eyes sliding from one house that’s way too fancy to be his grandpa’s to the too small one across the street. “Or maybe light brown. A couple stories tall.” 

She nods as if that’s more than minimally helpful to her. It doesn’t really matter that he can’t describe it that clearly, though; he’s not looking for any particular color or size or distinguishing features. He knows with complete confidence that he’ll recognize it when he sees it. 

And then it happens. The house comes up on their left, plain and unassuming to anyone else. It’s white, like he remembered, with a big front porch. Seeing it is like a punch to the gut, a thousand emotions all at once -- fear and grief and bittersweet nostalgia rising in the back of his throat, prickling at the corners of his eyes. 

“There,” he whispers, pointing at it, though there’s nothing more than breath behind the words. “That one.”

Knight Rider slows, then turns into the driveway, finally stopping at the top of it. “We have arrived.”

“Yeah,” Peter breathes, his heart pounding wildly, stomach twisting. He can’t decide whether he wants to pass out, throw up, or cry. 

“Are you all right?” asks Gamora, resting her hand against his cheek. “I know this isn’t easy.” 

“He never believed my mom,” he finds himself saying, the words tumbling out of their own accord again. “About my dad being--from the stars, she said. Grandpa wouldn’t talk about him at all, at first. Then later--later he said it was her sickness talking.”

She rubs his cheek with her thumb. “And you are worried that he won’t believe you now? When you tell him what happened to you? Where you’ve been?”

Peter shrugs and nods at the same time. “I dunno. I know it’s dumb, since you know--” He gestures to her, but feels oddly rude about it, like she doesn’t know she’s not a Terran. 

She raises her eyebrows, a little amused and a lot affectionate.“Since I am obviously an alien?” 

“Yeah,” he says. “But my grandpa was real firm in not believing in aliens.” 

“If it helps,” Knight Rider says, “approximately 73% of Americans believed in aliens following the attack on New York in 2012, and it is up to 88% after recent events.” 

Gamora gives the dash a look. “How are there still 12% who do not?”

“Earth is an interesting place, Ms. Gamora,” Knight Rider drawls. 

“Still that is--a good chance,” she says, clearly trying to reassure him. 

“Okay,” he says, nodding frantically, tapping his hands against his thighs to release some of his nervous energy. “Okay. Now or never.” Then he quickly opens the car door and practically leaps out, slamming it behind him in a way that makes Knight Rider protest. 

Peter ignores him, waiting only for Gamora to come around to his side and link their hands together before taking off toward the front door at a brisk pace. 

The porch steps creak under their feet, and the sound feels like thunder in his ears. He’s certain it must be incredibly loud, must be disturbing the entire neighborhood, let alone his grandfather. Nothing happens, though, no sign that anybody’s noticed their arrival at all.

When they make it to the door, he pauses, momentarily uncertain of what to do. Somehow he’s been picturing his grandfather coming out without any sort of prompting, maybe even cursing them for being on his property like the man at Elmore City High School. In the silence now, he can hear his heart pounding in his eardrums and all he’s aware of is the fact that there’s no sign of a doorbell, which means that he can’t ring it, which means...what? What is he supposed to do with no doorbell?

“Peter?” asks Gamora, squeezing his hand gently.

“I’m here, I’m here,” he says nonsensically, then finally, jarred from his weird anxious paralysis, reaches out and knocks on the door.

There’s another few moments of silence, then an eternity in which he can hear footsteps coming from inside of the house. He’s certain suddenly that they’ve come to the wrong place, or that maybe someone else lives here now, or possibly even that they’re standing on the doorstep of a dead man. 

But then, finally, the door opens, revealing a man who looks older, greyer, more weary of the world than he remembers. But unmistakable just the same.

“Hi, grandpa,” he whispers, mouth bone-dry.

For a long, long time, what feels like about a century, his grandpa just stares at him, mouth slightly agape. He looks like he’s in shock. His eyes dart briefly to the side to Gamora, widen for a second, but then slide right back to him, as if an alien is the least shocking thing he’s seeing right now. 

Peter’s heart is hammering wildly. He feels like he should offer up an explanation, something besides _Hi, grandpa_ , but even the thought of trying to form words is paralyzing right now. 

His grandpa seems to be having the same problem until finally, with a voice that wobbles from either age or emotion or both, he says, “Peter? Is it...is it really you?”

“Yeah,” he breathes, waiting anxiously for judgement, for whether he’s going to hug him or yell at him or not even believe him. 

There’s a little step up in front of the door that his grandpa is standing on -- or was. Now, he takes a step closer so he’s right in front of him, and Peter’s surprised to find that they’re almost exactly the same height. They might be exactly the same, if it weren’t for the stoop in the way his grandpa stands. He’d thought his grandpa was a giant when he was a kid. 

“My god,” his grandpa breathes. He seems smaller now, as he brings trembling hands up to cup Peter’s cheeks. His grip is firm but gentle, has hands warm and calloused, and Peter’s already crying. His grandfather makes a soft sound that’s half gasp, half sob and that’s all Peter needs -- he moves in a rush, embracing him. He smells like hay and sunlight and some intangible sense of _home_ that makes a fresh wave of tears spring to his eyes. 

Stepping back after what feels like an eternity, he becomes aware that he’s let go of Gamora’s hand, left her standing a couple of steps behind him. He glances back at her now, finds her watching them with a mix of joy and vulnerability on her face.

“Hey,” says Peter, stepping to the side so that she’s in full view again. “Grandpa, this is Gamora. My wife.”

It takes his grandfather another few moments to find words and during them, Peter wonders if this is about to turn into a disaster. He’s surprisingly happy to be here, to see his grandpa, he has to admit. But he’ll absolutely turn around and declare the old man dead in half a second if he says or does anything to upset Gamora.

Instead he smiles warmly, clearly surprised but hey, what part of this _wouldn’t_ be surprising for him? “Well, you sure did find yourself a beautiful girl.”

The relief is apparent in Gamora’s smile. 

“The most beautiful woman in the galaxy,” Peter says matter-of-factly, but with that pride he always has when talking about Gamora. 

“Nice to meet you, Gamora,” his grandpa says, extending his hand. Gamora takes it and there they are, his wife and his grandfather shaking hands. “I’m George.”

“Nice to meet you, George,” she says. Peter can hear the nervousness in her voice, but he’s pretty sure he’s the only one who could. “And technically, _I_ found him.”

His grandpa laughs and runs his hand over the back of his head, the same thing Peter does when he’s restless or anxious. “So you--you were...up there?” He points a shaky finger at the sky. He looks overwhelmed, and Peter can’t blame him. _He’s_ overwhelmed too, and his grandpa has a lot of information to process right now. And he hasn’t even heard the story. 

“Yeah, uh, you might wanna sit down,” Peter suggests. His grandpa’s kind of hunched over now, a hand on his upper thigh for support. It suddenly strikes Peter just how long thirty years is. His grandpa doesn’t look sickly, but he’s definitely showing the signs of age. 

“Of course, of course,” says his grandfather, straightening up as if also just noticing his posture. He squares his shoulders as best he can, though it’s clear his back is feeling decades of hard work on the farm. “Where are my manners? Let’s all go inside and sit down.”

Peter nods, resisting the urge to reach out and put a protective hand on his grandpa’s back as the older man turns to lead the way. It’s not like his grandpa is frail, not like he isn’t perfectly capable of walking on his own. But now, after thirty years of convincing himself that he doesn’t care if he never sees any of his blood relatives ever again, Peter feels the overwhelming need to ground himself, to hold this miracle close and never let go.

He takes Gamora’s hand again and brushes a kiss against her temple as they step through the doorway. Inside, the house looks exactly like he remembers it -- simple but sturdy furniture, wood on the floors and wood panels on the walls, like the place might be trying to disguise itself as a log cabin. The decor is sparse, but what is there is all sunny colors, rusty oranges, reds, and warm yellows. That, he remembers suddenly, was one of the few things he’d always thought his grandpa had in common with his mom.

He’d _thought_ it was one of the only things. 

As they walk through the dining room, approaching the main living area, the faint strains of a sound that’s achingly familiar, and the last thing he expected to hear at his grandpa’s house, reach his ears. 

He halts in his tracks. Gamora, still holding his hand, stops next to him, looking at him with alarm and concern. “What is it?” she whispers. His grandpa, not having noticed, continues moving. 

“Nothing,” Peter whispers back, shaking himself. Maybe he’s hearing things. “Nothing.” 

He takes a few quick steps to catch up with his grandpa, who walks faster than he expected for someone who must be about eighty years old by now. The sound grows stronger as they approach the living room until it’s unmistakable, in melody and lyrics. 

_The dying embers of a night_  
A fire that slowly fades til dawn  
Still glow upon the wall so bright 

“Grandpa,” Peter says, stunned when he sees a vinyl record spinning away on what he’s pretty sure is the same record player his grandpa has had since he was a kid. Since his mom was a kid, he bets. “Is that ELO?” 

“What?” asks his grandfather, finally stopping and turning to face him again, apparently just noticing the stricken look on his face. It isn’t clear whether he’s failed to hear the question or just hasn’t processed it. Which is fair, considering everything else they’re throwing at him right now. 

“The music,” says Peter, trying to temper his voice, to sound like the calm and rational person he wants his grandpa to see in him. “It’s ELO, isn’t it?” It’s more a prompt than a real question; he knows now with certainty that it is.

“Oh,” says his grandpa, as if just now remembering that the music is playing. He glances over at the record player, nodding. “It sure is. I see you haven’t forgotten your mother’s music.”

“ _No_ ,” Peter says vehemently, a fresh wave of tears springing to his eyes. “No, not at _all_. I could _never._ But you--You used to call it noise.”

His grandpa hesitates briefly, then shrugs. “It reminds me of your mother. And you.”

“Oh.” Peter swipes at his eyes, picturing his grandpa sitting here listening to music he used to hate because it reminds him of his dead daughter and missing grandson. There’s a whole stack of albums underneath the player. He can make out a Sam Cooke and a Pat Benatar. His mom always preferred cassettes, so it’s not like these are her old ones that his grandpa just happened to keep; he must have gone out and bought these. 

“It’s good music,” his grandpa says. Peter thinks he might be trying to sound a lot more casual and calm than he feels, which oddly makes him feel better about his own attempt to do the same. “I wish--I wish I appreciated it more when...you were a kid.” He sighs, calm facade fading. “I wish I’d appreciated a lot of things more.” 

“Grandpa--” Peter starts, but doesn’t know what else to say. 

“I know I wasn’t the best grandfather to you. Pretty lousy, I’d say. Not a great father, either.” His grandpa shakes his head. “But this isn’t about me. I--I can’t believe you’re really here.” He reaches out tentatively to touch Peter’s face again. 

“He is here,” says Gamora, before Peter can come up with any words in response to those confessions. She sounds mildly protective, clearly hasn’t understood the context of the figure of speech. “I know it is hard to believe from your perspective but he is your grandson and he is being truthful.”

“Oh, he knows,” Peter says quickly. The last thing he wants is for them to somehow offend one another. This is going so well, he has to admit there’s a part of him that’s still waiting for the other shoe to drop, for it all to be ruined. 

His grandpa just smiles, though, still warmer than he ever could have imagined as a child. “Oh, I certainly do. If I had any doubts, this boy’s love of this music would’ve taken care of ‘em.”

Peter laughs tearfully, joyfully, and nods, overwhelmed that his grandpa understands this about him and that they can finally, _finally_ share it.

“I looked for you for _so long_ , Pete,” his grandpa breathes, letting the hand on his face drop down to his shoulder and then squeezing it firmly. “Years. The police--they gave up after a couple weeks. Said that long missing, you were probably dead. But I went out and I looked every day. I knew it was a long shot you were still in St. Charles, but I had to try.” He chuckles ruefully. “Turns out you weren’t even still on Earth.”

“I’m so sorry,” Peter whispers, a fresh, intense wave of guilt flooding him. 

His grandpa shakes his head. “God, don’t be sorry, Peter. None of it’s your fault. It’s certainly not your fault you were abducted. That is what happened, isn’t it?”

It’s not really a question, but Peter nods anyway. 

“By your father?” his grandpa asks. Peter tenses, surprised that his grandpa brought it up, considering how much he always hated to even have his parentage alluded to. 

“Why don’t we sit down?” Gamora suggests before Peter can answer, probably saving him from having to if he doesn’t want to. 

“Of course, of course,” his grandpa says, letting go of Peter’s shoulder. “Take a seat, please.” He sits down in an armchair and gestures to the couch next to it, angled in such a way that when Peter and Gamora sit down, they’re still facing him. 

Peter settles back on the couch, realizing it’s the same one that was here when he was a kid as soon as he hears the way the springs creak under him. It’s a weird thing to unleash a flood of nostalgia, but here it is all the same. Sucking in a breath, he wraps an arm around Gamora’s shoulders, letting the solid, familiar warmth of her ground him.

“So,” he says finally, “I was abducted, but--not _exactly_ by my dad. There was this guy--” He breaks off for a moment, surprised by how much it still hurts to talk about this, even four years after Yondu’s death and Ego’s betrayal. 

Gamora squeezes his hand and he swallows. “He was like--half pirate and half bounty hunter. My dad hired him to get me, only he decided I was more valuable as part of his crew. I didn’t even meet my real dad until a few years ago. Turns out you were right to think he was an asshole.”

“He was a scumbag,” his grandfather says, voice so strong and vehement that it makes Peter remember why he used to be intimidated by him. “I shoulda punched him when I had the chance.” 

“Peter punched him,” Gamora says proudly. 

“Good boy,” his grandpa says, reaching over to pat his knee. 

Peter practically glows with pride, but he can’t help his curiosity. “I thought you didn’t believe her, about my father being an alien.”

His grandpa shakes his head sadly. “I’m ashamed to say I didn’t. Your mama--she was so young. Too trusting. At first I figured-- _that man_ had just spun her a story and she believed him. And then--well, you know.” He points to his head with a finger that’s still shaking a bit. 

Peter’s throat constricts at both the allusion to his mother’s tumor and the fact that his grandpa doesn’t even know the truth about it. He might leave that detail out of the story, he decides. 

“I do know,” he says, his voice hoarse.

“When did you believe her?” Gamora asks, thankfully taking over for him. Peter leans into her gratefully, letting his grandpa talk. 

“Well--” He pauses, seemingly having his own trouble finding the right words to bring their worlds together. “When did y’all get to Earth?”

“A couple of weeks ago,” says Gamora, resting her hand on Peter's thigh as though anticipating the guilt that surges through him at that. 

“I'm sorry,” Peter breathes. “I'm sorry I didn't come sooner. I was--scared. Of being here without Mom. But also that I wouldn't be welcome.”

“Of _course_ you're welcome,” says his grandpa. He sighs heavily. “But I see why you thought you might not’ve been. That's my fault.”

“No,” Peter says quickly. “Not just yours. Mine too.”

“Point is, you’ve been gone a while,” says his grandpa, doing nothing to acknowledge his attempt at taking some of the blame. “I dunno if you know, but aliens attacked New York about six years ago. No way to _not_ believe in ‘em after that.”

It’s Gamora’s turn to tense next to him. He hadn’t known about that up until a few years ago, when she told him about it, how Thanos had been the puppet master behind it in his quest for the Stones. 

“Yeah,” he says, rubbing his thumb soothingly against Gamora’s shoulder. “I knew… Probably sucked to find out about aliens that way.”

His grandpa laughs once, an unfamiliar sound, more because of how rarely he used to do it when Peter was a child than how long it’s been. “It sure did. I shoulda listened to Meredith. Believed my own daughter.” 

“It was a hard thing to believe,” Peter allows. He had doubts himself as a kid, more and more after he found out about the brain cancer. 

His grandpa just shakes his head. “I suppose I can’t change nothin’ about that now. Anyway. What did happen with your father?”

Peter takes a deep breath, lets Gamora’s warmth next to him ground him, and says, “It’s kind of a long story…”

* * *

“I'll get those,” Peter offers when his grandpa starts gathering up the plates from dinner. He gets to his feet and picks up the stack easily, shoving down a flash of childhood memory in which he'd hidden under the table and actually _claimed_ to have been abducted by aliens to avoid helping in the kitchen. 

The day feels surreal enough that he almost _could_ be in another reality. They've migrated from the living room to the dining room, still trading stories of the past thirty years. There's still _so much_ left to share, to catch up on, but it's clear that things are winding down for tonight. 

“You, doing dishes?” asks Gamora, voice from the kitchen doorway startling him out of his thoughts. 

“I know, right?” says Peter. “By hand, even.” This house didn't have a dishwasher when he was growing up and by the look of it now, that's another thing that hasn't changed. 

“Impressive,” says Gamora, coming to stand beside him at the sink. “I suppose that means you need someone to dry for you.”

“I do believe we vowed to take care of one another despite the challenges,” he points out. 

She grins. “I think I remember that.” 

His grandpa, who’s started putting away the condiments they’d used for their sandwiches — his nonexistent penchant for cooking also hasn’t changed — chuckles and says, “How long have you two been married?” 

Peter and Gamora exchange a glance before they both laugh. “Uh, about half a day now,” he admits. 

“Wh--really?” His grandpa pauses with the mustard halfway to a shelf in the fridge. 

“Yep,” Peter says, handing Gamora the last wet plate. He’s prepared to launch into the whole story, but he finally notices that, aside from looking surprised, his grandpa also looks very tired. Peter senses that he’s kept him up well past his usual bedtime already -- not that he’s complained. On the contrary, his grandpa has been a captive audience for the Star-Lord Adventure Hour, which is how they ended up having dinner this late at night. 

“We’ll tell you the story in the morning,” Peter offers. “I mean--if that’s okay?”

“Of course,” his grandpa says quickly, like he’s alarmed that he’s even asked. “I’ve got a guest room you two are welcome to use for as long as you want.” 

“That's very kind of you,” says Gamora, drying her hands and hanging the threadbare towel back on the hook where it came from. “Can you show us that way now?”

“I'll grab the bags,” says Peter, darting back into the living room to get the luggage. At least he had the forethought to go and get it from Knight Rider before dinner. 

“Not by yourself you won't,” says Gamora, following him quickly. 

There are three bags that they've brought in, so naturally she scoops up two before he's managed even one, holding them in one hand like they weigh nothing. 

From the doorway, Peter hears his grandpa chuckle. “Beautiful _and_ strong. You'd make a fine farmer, Gamora.”

“She’d make an amazing anything,” Peter says proudly. She blushes adorably. 

“I have no doubt of that,” his grandpa says, turning to lead them across the room to the staircase. That’s where he and his mother’s rooms had been when they lived here, Peter suddenly recalls. He wonders if one of those rooms is the guest room they’re going to.

He doesn’t even get a chance to get properly anxious about that, because now they’re walking up the staircase and the wall the whole way up is lined with pictures. Some of them are of people he doesn’t recognize, some of them look vaguely familiar, and others...others make him stop in his tracks and nearly drop the bag he’s carrying. 

“Peter--oh my god,” Gamora says, apparently following his gaze. “Is that--?”

“Yeah,” Peter says weakly. He reaches out with trembling fingers to trace the nearest picture. “That’s my mom.” 

His mother is young in the photo, far younger than he is now, and Peter realizes with a jolt that he's now outlived her by over a decade. She's smiling in the photo, wearing a cap and gown for what must have been her high school graduation, curly hair spilling down her shoulders. 

For a moment all he can do is stare at the picture, water welling in his eyes to paradoxically blur his vision of it as a thousand familiar memories come into sharper focus in his mind. Then he sees movement in his peripheral vision and looks over at Gamora. 

She reaches up slowly and traces the picture too, movement tender and absolutely reverent. 

“Thank you,” she breathes to the photo. “Thank you for your son, and everything he has brought into my life.”

Peter’s heart swells with affection for Gamora and his mom. He stares at the picture, studying her every feature.

His grandpa, who’d been a few steps ahead of them on the stairs, is suddenly on his other side, hand on his shoulder. 

“I haven’t seen a picture of her in thirty years,” Peter explains in a whisper. 

“Oh, Pete,” his grandpa says, squeezing his shoulder. “I didn’t—I didn’t even think of that. Well, there’s quite a few here.” 

He finally tears his eyes away from this picture to look at the wall again, hungry for more, for every image of his mother he can lay his eyes on. 

“Peter,” Gamora says gently, pointing a little further up the wall. “Is that you?” 

He follows her finger and gasps with delight and emotion when he sees that it’s a picture of his mother _and_ him. They’re sitting in their old living room on the couch, the Walkman between them and headphones held so they can each use one. Neither of them is looking at the camera; it must have been taken without them realizing. 

“Yeah,” he answers, tears flowing more in earnest now. “That must have been before I got my own Walkman. That one was hers. You can tell because it’s an older model, see?” 

He points it out, and Gamora nods. “I can see the coloration is different from yours.”

“Wait,” says his grandpa, sounding surprised for definitely not the first time today, “you still have that thing?”

Peter sighs, surprised at the way that subject still stings. It’s been _years_ , he loves his Zune, and as much as music is still a hugely important part of his life, it no longer feels like his only lifeline to true emotional connection. He has Gamora and the rest of his family for that now. Still, he misses the Walkman and doesn’t think that will ever go away. 

“Not anymore,” he says finally. “I did until a few years ago. But--you know, things happen when you’re fighting bad guys.”

Gamora wraps an arm around his shoulders from one side. His grandpa hesitates for only the briefest second before doing the same from the other. For a while all he does is stand like that, enveloped between them--two loves, both lost and now somehow found again. 

There’s no way to get his mother back; he knows that. But right now he feels like he’s gotten a part of her back, in a way. Thirty years without a single image of her, and now here he is with at least a dozen right in front of him. He can’t stop staring. 

“I recognize that one,” he says, pointing to a polaroid in a small frame. It’s another of him and his mother outside somewhere, possibly the farm. She’s got her arms around him and they’re both grinning from ear to ear. They look happy, but Peter can see the way her hair is starting to thin in the picture, her curls not as thick as they used to be. She’d already started treatment. “I think we had that one in the living room for a while, in our old house.”

“Probably,” his grandpa says. “That one was in a box of pictures your mom kept in her room here.” 

“It is very sweet,” Gamora says with a fond smile. “You have her smile.” 

He glows with pride. “I looked like her as a kid look!” He excitedly points out a picture of a curly-haired little girl, probably about six or seven, next to a picture of himself at about the same age. 

“You did,” says Gamora, kissing his cheek. She looks back and forth between him and the pictures a few more times. “You look like her as an adult, too. The eyes, and the curls, and the warmth. I have never met anyone as warm as you.”

“Hey,” says Peter, leaning into her. “You're the one who's always telling me you've got a higher core body temperature than squishy Terrans.”

She rolls her eyes. “You know what I mean.”

“I know you're a furnace in bed,” he says, elbowing her a little. 

On his other side, his grandpa clears his throat. “There's plenty more pictures for tomorrow, but speaking of bed, can I show you to your room?”

“Oh, yeah, of course,” Peter says quickly, said warmth rising to his cheeks. “I, Uh—I didn’t mean—“ 

“Please, lead the way,” Gamora, who’s also blushing, says to his grandpa, wisely cutting Peter off before he can shove his foot all the way into his mouth. 

After his grandpa turns to climb the rest of the stairs, it’s Gamora’s turn to elbow Peter. He gives her his best innocent face and mouths _what?_. She just shakes her head. 

At the top of the stairs, they reach the beginning of a short, familiar hallway. He knows if they walked a little bit farther, they’d reach the rooms he and his mother used to stay in. Instead, they stop in front of the first door they reach. 

“You should have everything you need in here,” his grandpa says, opening the door for them. “There’s a connecting bathroom, and extra blankets in the closet.” 

“That sounds excellent,” says Gamora, slipping into the room ahead of him and setting the bags down on the bed.

“Thank you,” Peter tells his grandpa, then hesitates for just a second longer before hugging him. 

“Anything you need, Pete,” says his grandpa, giving him a warm squeeze before stepping back to touch his face again, like he might still be eight years old. “I mean that.”

“More in the morning,” he promises, his commitment to not disappearing for another thirty years.

He keeps his gaze on his grandpa all the way down the stairs, then finally turns and follows Gamora into the room. It’s simple, sparsely decorated, just a bed, a nightstand, and a dresser, all probably as old as the rest of the house. 

“That appeared to go very well,” says Gamora, over her shoulder. She unzips one of the bags, digs her pajamas out of it, and casually undoes her pants.

“I--” He looks at her, opens his mouth, and promptly chokes on a sob.

“Oh, Peter,” she says, hurrying to close the gap between them, her pants undone but still on. 

He lets himself fall into her arms easily, head on her shoulder, but gasps, “I’m okay, I’m okay.” 

“I know,” she soothes. “A lot has happened today.” 

He nods, because he doesn’t quite have the words or the breath right now to explain that the tears are only partly because of the reunion. How can her explain why the fact that she unzipped her pants in front of him instead of going into the bathroom to change made him burst into tears? 

“Why don’t we go lie down?” Gamora prompts, coaxing him to lift his head. 

“Okay,” he says, sniffling. He wipes his cheek roughly with the back of his hand. She grabs his wrist to still him. 

“Careful with my husband’s face.” She cups his other cheek and gently wipes away a tear with her thumb, smiling at him with so much love and tenderness that another sob escapes from his throat. 

“It is a good face,” he says weakly. 

“It’s my favorite face.” She takes his hand and leads him the couple of steps over to the bed. 

“Really?” asks Peter. He's joking, mostly, playing it up for the drama they both know he loves, but that doesn't stop the slight flush that rises in his cheeks at her praise. 

“Really,” she says, tracing his jaw again with her free hand, catching a few lingering tears before gently stroking his lower lip. “That's why I married it.”

He pulls his eyes wide, feigning shock. “I should have known you were only in it for my face!”

“You caught me,” she deadpans. “Now are you going to bring your face to bed?” 

Apparently changing her mind about actual pajamas, she steps back to finish removing her pants, then crawls under the covers in her panties and Princess Leia t-shirt. 

Peter grins stupidly at her for a moment before shaking himself and kicking off his boots. “Have I ever told you how much of a turn-on that shirt is?”

“Only every time I wear it,” says Gamora, but she looks pleased. 

“Huh,” says Peter, shoving his jeans down and then hopping a few times as one leg gets stuck. “Imagine that.”

She doesn’t laugh at his predicament, just smiles affectionately and lifts the blanket up next to her.

Pants finally all the way off, he climbs under the covers in just his t-shirt and boxers. Gamora pulls him into her arms immediately and he sinks into them gratefully, resting his head on her chest, his body practically completely covering hers. Her hair is still braided, ornaments woven through beautifully. 

“I’m sorry,” he mutters, fresh tears falling as she cards her fingers through his hair. “Wedding nights are supposed to be—you know, special.” 

“How has this not been special?” she asks. Her fingers are magic, making him melt. 

“I just mean—you’re supposed to have like marathon sex all night,” he says, blushing. “And it’s not like I don’t wanna—I totally want to—but—“ 

“Peter,” Gamora says incredulously. “Sweetheart. You do not have to apologize for that. I wasn’t expecting marathon sex—or any sex tonight. You just saw your grandfather for the first time in thirty years.” 

“I don’t wanna disappoint you.”

She laughs and it sounds a little watery. “Peter. How could you even think that? We got married today. We found your grandfather today. Who cares about sex?”

He blinks, wondering suddenly whether he’s misinterpreted, whether she’s still in a place where sex is more anxiety-provoking than enjoyable. “Um...I do? I mean not, like, right this second, but...eventually? If you do. Not to pressure you or anything.”

“Shhh,” she soothes, touching his cheek again. “Of course I do. When we’re _both_ ready.”

He takes a deep, steadying breath and nods, leaning into her hand. “I love you.”

“I know,” says Gamora, and breaks into the slightly goofy smile she gets whenever she’s pleased with herself for making a pop culture reference. “We have time, Peter.”

For the first time in an eternity, she sounds like she believes herself.


	28. Chapter 28

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello all!! As some of you have already noticed, we finally updated the chapter count because we know how many chapters this is going to be now!! Only 13 more than originally anticipated :)

“So, this is the farm,” Peter says unnecessarily, making a sweeping gesture towards the land ahead of them. Gamora’s had a look of delight on her face from the moment they stepped outside, which more than makes up for the insanely early hour they’d woken up. He’d forgotten this part of living on the farm; those roosters are relentless. “It’s mostly just field, I guess, but--”

“I love it,” she whispers, taking it all in. “It’s a lot larger than it looked from the front.”

“Yeah, it’s deceptive like that,” he says, pleased with her approval. “Let’s head this way.” 

He takes her hand and guides her towards the chicken coop, which is the reason they’d come out here in the first place. His grandpa is taking care of the cows, but Peter and Gamora had wanted to help, and feeding the chickens is the only farm thing he remembers how to do. 

“Oh, what are these?” she asks, bending down to examine some flowers that are growing in random patches all over the ground. 

He bends down too, a sudden memory washing over him: picking a whole handful of these to bring to his mother in the hospital. His grandfather had said they were just weeds, but he’d thought they were pretty. His mom thought so too. 

“Daisies,” he says softly. 

“They're beautiful,” says Gamora. She reaches down to brush her hand across them very gently, like she's afraid of damaging them. “Did your grandfather plant them?”

“No, no,” says Peter. “They just grow wild like this. Actually a lot of people think they're weeds. A nuisance. My grandpa did when I was a kid.”

She shakes her head. “What a shame to miss the beauty of a thing just because you are not the one who put it there.”

“Thank you!” he says, vindicated. “That's what I always thought too. And my mom.”

“I'm not surprised,” Gamora says warmly. “Particularly after seeing her pictures.”

He grins, practically glowing. “You want to pick some? We can make a bouquet, ask my grandpa for something to use as a vase.”

“I don't want to ask too much of him,” she says. “Or take too many from their place.”

“All right,” he says, then ponders for a moment before picking a single flower and offering it to her. “How about just this one, then?”

Gamora takes it, examines it delicately and then tucks it behind her ear. Her hair is down today, more wavy than curly from being braided yesterday; the flower looks like it belongs. 

“Beautiful,” he says affectionately, kissing her forehead. 

The little blush that tinges her cheeks at the compliment delights him to no end. 

He stands up straight, holding out his hand for hers again. “Let’s go see about some chickens, huh?” 

“Yes!” She takes his hand eagerly and they walk farther out onto the farm. 

“You can see the cows over there, too!” He points toward the other side of the farm, where he can dimly make out the form of his grandpa out amongst them. There’s only a few, way less than when he was a kid; also part of his grandpa downsizing the farm, he supposes. 

“Oh, they’re beautiful,” Gamora says. “Those spots.”

“We can see ‘em up close after this,” he offers. “Here’s the chicken coop.” He gestures to it as they come upon it. It’s pretty big, the same one that was here when he was growing up. It’s showing its age a bit, but it still looks sturdy. They can see through the chicken wire that lines the sides, and the chickens are very interested in their approach. 

“What is the purpose of chickens?” she asks, eyeing the birds a little suspiciously as they get closer and the clucking approaches raucous levels. He can only imagine how loud it must sound to her enhanced ears. 

“Shhh,” he tells the chickens, coming to a stop just outside the coop. He rests a hand against the wire, remembering suddenly how he used to stand here as a kid, face pressed up as close as possible, so that sometimes he’d end up with indentations on his forehead. The chickens, of course, don’t heed his request, becoming even more excited at the prospect of food.

“Peter?” Gamora prompts, and he realizes that he hasn’t actually answered her question, has become too lost in his own thoughts. 

He shakes himself. “Food, mostly, I guess? They’re kinda like the Earth equivalent of ealuks on Xandar. You can eat their meat, but my grandpa mostly keeps ‘em for their eggs. Or at least he did when I was a kid.”

“Do they think we’re coming to attack them?” she asks, still wary. 

“Nah, they know we’re gonna feed them,” he assures her. “Look at them, they’re excited.” 

“If you say so.”

“I’m gonna open the door,” he says, standing in front of it. The chickens have crowded in front of it eagerly. “They’re gonna follow us but they’re not gonna try to hurt us.” 

“I know,” she says, but she stands back a little ways as he opens the door. She loves animals, but she respects their power, and is often wary at first of encounters with unfamiliar species. 

The chickens come waddling and clucking out as soon as the gap in the door is wide enough for them to fit through. There’s only about a dozen of them, way fewer than when he was a kid; it’s almost comical for so large a coop. 

As they walk towards the shed near the back of the coop, the chickens follow, keeping just a bit of distance. 

“They look funny when they walk,” Gamora notes, looking back at them with amusement now, wariness dissipated. 

“Wait til you see them eat.” He opens the shed and grabs a handful of feed from the bag in there, tossing it out to one side. The chickens immediately go running towards it. “Hey, don’t all crowd around there!” he tells them, tossing another handful behind them. Some of the chickens move toward that area. 

He holds the open bag towards Gamora. “You wanna do one?” 

“All right,” she agrees, glancing into it. She doesn’t reach into the bag yet, though, instead considering its contents as though deciding whether she ought to be disgusted by it. “What do they eat?”

Peter thinks for a moment, then shrugs. “Chicken feed? I dunno. I think it’s like...seeds and grains, mostly. They also eat bugs but there’s none of those in here. They gotta hunt for those on their own.”

Gamora wrinkles her nose at the mention of bugs, but she finally reaches into the bag gamely enough and pulls out a handful. “Do I just throw it?”

He nods. “Yeah. Preferably somewhere there’s not already a lot of chickens. Otherwise they’ll run into each other or fight over it. Chickens are real dumb sometimes.”

“All right,” she says again. She looks around for a moment, then hurls the handful of feed a dozen yards away before looking back at him for approval.

“Um,” says Peter, trying not to laugh. To be fair, his instructions weren’t exactly clear, and she _has_ basically followed them. “I don’t think they’re gonna be able to find that.”

A couple of the chickens move in the general direction of her throw and peck around for a second, but quickly realize there’s way more feed where they just came from and turn back. 

“Oh,” Gamora says, disappointed. 

“It’s okay!” he says, taking another handful. “You wanna just toss it, like this.” He demonstrates by throwing this handful in yet another direction. “One more try?” 

“Yes,” she says firmly. She sticks her hand in again, coming up with a heaping handful of feed. This time she tosses it with such exaggerated gentleness that it’s less a throw than just dropping it, all of the feed in a very small area near her feet. “Oops.”

“That was good!” he says encouragingly anyway. It’s difficult for her to moderate her strength at times, he knows. 

She smiles proudly, watching two chickens who are friendly enough to come that close to her converge on her pile. “They do look very funny when they eat.” 

“I know,” he giggles. “I used to come out here with my Walkman, just hang out and watch them.” 

“These same ones?” she asks curiously. 

He watches them thoughtfully for a moment, trying to remember any specifics of the ones he knew thirty years ago. “I don’t know. I don’t know how long they live.” 

“I suppose that would be a long life for a bird,” she allows. 

“Yeah,” he agrees, though he really has no idea at all how long any birds live. It’s not like he’s ever had a pet in space, so he doesn’t exactly think about animal lifespans on the regular. Especially not the ones that live on Earth. 

“We could ask Knight Rider later if you’re curious,” she says. 

“Yeah,” says Peter again, still absently. He’s thinking of being a kid on this farm again, wondering whether any of the animals at all are the same, or if they’re all new now. Another thing that’s changed while he’s been gone.

“Peter,” Gamora says, her tone suddenly uncertain.

“Huh?” He looks up, slightly alarmed at that shift, only to see that the chickens have most definitely been enjoying the food, moving closer and closer to Gamora. “Oh hey, you made some friends.”

“Hey,” she says, as one of them cranes its neck out to peck the toe of her boot. “Hey, I’m not food.”

“Really?” he asks, as if greatly surprised by this information. He leans close and pretends to bite her shoulder, making exaggerated and completely unrealistic chewing noises. “You taste good enough to eat to me.”

“Peter,” she laughs. “Be serious.”

“I am serious!” He kisses her neck for real this time, sweeping her hair to the side to do so. “You’re delicious.” 

Gamora makes a soft, pleased noise that encourages him to let his lips travel a little farther up. That is, until she laughs again and jerks her foot away, which jerks her neck away too. 

“Seriously, what is it doing?” she asks, as the chicken gives up pecking and just looks up at them. Peter doesn’t know how good he is at reading chicken feelings, but it seems curious to him. 

“Chickens are dumb,” he repeats, laughing at the way the chicken tilts its head.

“None of the others are interested in us anymore,” she points out. 

“Maybe this one is extra dumb then,” he says, but he doesn’t quite think so. “Or maybe it’s friendly.” He stoops down, reaching his hand out as if to pet it, but the chicken scoots away so he can’t reach. “Or not.” 

Gamora holds her hand out for the feed bag, taking another bit and tossing it further away from her. “Here. More food, that is definitely different from my boot.”

A few of the other chickens break off from the rest of the flock and go after it, but the weird one moves close to Gamora again instead. She attempts to stare it down, probably fighting it with her eye-daggers, but the bird leans in again, this time pecking at the hem of her pants. 

“ _What_?” asks Gamora. She could easily scare the chicken, or kick it and send it flying very far away. Instead she sighs indulgently, takes more feed, and offers it in the palm of her hand. “Is this what you want?”

This time the chicken clucks happily and begins eating enthusiastically out of her hand. 

“Okay, okay,” she says, sinking down to sit on the grass. 

Peter watches, a little slack-jawed as the bird climbs right into her lap. 

“Holy shit,” he mutters. “Gamora, are you secretly like--some kind of bird expert? I never saw a chicken do that before. And I used to watch them a lot.” 

She shrugs one shoulder. “I am doing nothing but feeding it.” 

“I wanna hand-feed a chicken,” he declares, scooping up a small handful of feed like Gamora did and holding it out to one of the other chickens, who immediately runs away from him. “Hey, c’mon! It’s the same stuff on the ground.” He tries with another chicken, getting the same results. 

Gamora, meanwhile, is still sitting serenely on the ground with the chicken pecking away at her hand, looking for all the world like she’s completely in her element. 

It’s just too sweet for him to stay frustrated with his own failure. 

“You look like you’ve lived on a farm your whole life,” he comments, sitting down next to her. The chicken on her lap looks up at him for a second but quickly gets back to eating. 

“We did live here,” she says, almost casually. “In the future I saw where we lived on Earth. We lived here.” 

He blinks, heart suddenly pounding in his throat. It takes him a moment to swallow hard enough to find his voice again. “We--we did? _Here_?”

She nods, shifting her hand a bit as the feed disappears into the chicken’s beak. “Yes. The one where you were a singer.”

“A pebble star,” says Peter, unable to help smiling a little, despite the shock. “Why didn’t you tell me before? That we--lived with my grandpa?”

“I didn’t recognize it until now,” she says. “It felt--like I had been here before, when we arrived. But I didn’t realize until this morning that it was from that vision.”

“How did we get here?” he asks eagerly. “Did you see?”

“I didn’t see our first arrival,” she admits. “But I know that we visited your grandfather several times over the years. After a while, we were here quite a bit, helping him out. After another while, we were--here alone.”

“Because he was gone,” Peter says softly, reading between the lines. It’s inevitable, he knows. If they were old enough to retire in the vision, then there’d be no way his grandpa was still alive.

Gamora nods, dusts her empty hand off and shows it to the chicken. The bird promptly cuddles its face up to her palm. 

He shakes his head in amazement at this strange chicken, but can’t keep his mind off this future. “What about the others? The rest of the team was here too, right?” He distinctly remembers her talking about them when she was describing this scenario. 

“Yes,” she says, scratching the chicken’s head a bit. It keeps pulling its head back, then leaning forward for more, as if unsure what it wants. “At first, when we just visited occasionally, it was only the two of us. Though we brought the others a couple of times to meet him. Then they came nearly every time.” 

She laughs as Peter holds out his hand full of feed to the chicken and it cranes its neck to eat it while still remaining with her. 

“Did they get along?” he asks, laughing too at the sensation. He thought it might hurt but it doesn’t. 

“Very well,” she says. “You called him _team grandpa_. Even Nebula openly said she ‘didn’t hate him.’” 

He whistles, impressed. The chicken looks up curiously. “Damn.” 

“She came here a lot too,” says Gamora, curling her fingers through the chicken’s feathers as the bird finally seems to decide that the pets are welcome and relaxes like a feather pillow laid out across her lap. She runs a hand down the hen’s back, a gesture that’s impossibly soft. “There was another kind of animal, similar to the cows. I think they might have been horses?”

“Yeah,” says Peter, though he’s pretty sure his grandpa doesn’t have any of those right now. Still, they’re common enough around here and he could see himself wanting to have some if he was going to live here. Two dreams in one: rockstar _and_ cowboy. “Horses.”

“Well, Nebula liked them a lot, although of course she never wanted to admit it. She spent a great deal of time with them, caring for them and riding them.”

“Huh,” he says thoughtfully. “I can actually see that about her. You two and your love for animals.”

Gamora smiles with pride at the comparison. She always loves it when she and Nebula have things in common. “There are no horses here now, though.” 

“Yeah, my grandpa always said they were too much trouble,” he says, recalling how envious he’d been of neighbors who had them. 

“That’s part of the reason it took me so long to recognize the house,” she admits. “And that I never saw the entire thing in the vision.”

“No?” he asks. “You didn’t see this whole timeline?”

She shakes her head. “Just parts. Bits and pieces. I saw you singing quite a few times. Nebula with the horses. Rocket discovered an old tractor and other broken equipment in a shed somewhere. He turned the shed into his workshop.”

“That sounds like him,” Peter says fondly. “There’s a pretty big shed over there.” He gestures vaguely behind them, toward the other side of the farm. “I bet it was that one.” 

“Probably,” says Gamora. “He tinkered with and reinvented a lot of the tech in your grandfather’s home. And he only blew up the refrigerator about three times.”

He snorts, picturing it. He can only imagine what Rocket would do with some of Earth’s tech, given enough time, resources, and frustration. “How many times did he blow up other things?”

“Impossible to count,” she says, though he has a feeling she’s exaggerating at least a little bit, given the way her lips are twitching. The chicken stirs and nibbles her hand, apparently protesting the fact that she’s stopped petting it for a few moments too long. She shakes her head and resumes stroking its head.

“What about Groot?” he asks, because he suddenly needs every single detail about this that he can possibly get. “Was he here too?”

“Of course,” she says. “Though he was big by the time we settled down here. He loved all the greenery. Had his own little garden plot that he cared for.”

Peter shakes his head, imagining that too. “What, was he trying to grow himself a girlfriend?”

“No,” she says. “He remained uninterested in anything like that. He just liked growing things. And being in nature.” 

“That first part makes sense,” he says. “But I can’t picture Groot voluntarily leaving his room.” 

“He did still play video games,” she admits. 

“Phew.” He blows out a breath. “I was beginning to fear that wasn’t the real Groot.”

Gamora laughs and nudges him. “He did really enjoy it out here, though. And Drax enjoyed the things he grew--or he enjoyed cooking them, anyway.”

“Did he cook anything edible?” Peter asks, thinking of Drax’s previous attempts at feeding them. 

“Yes, actually,” she says. “He became pretty good at it. Almost always edible.” 

“ _Almost_ ,” he mutters. “What about Mantis?”

“She loved all the animals,” Gamora says, still stroking the chicken. “I saw her volunteering at an animal shelter a lot. And we adopted at least four animals from it.” 

Peter grins. “I always wanted pets!”

“Besides the farm ones?” she asks. 

“They weren’t really pets,” he points out. “I really wanted a dog, but my mom always said ‘not yet.’” He frowns, thinking for the first time not only of how disappointed _he’d_ been by that answer, but how disappointed his mom had looked giving it. “I think a kid was already a lot for her to handle on her own.” 

“I am sure it was,” says Gamora, and for just a moment Peter wonders if he ought to be stung by that. It's not like he thinks he was the best kid ever, but he also doesn't enjoy imagining that he was a burden to his mom. But then she continues. “Think about Groot. He has five parents, and he is still a lot for us to handle.”

“Four,” says Peter, though he can't help smiling a little at that. “You know Mantis would say he's way more her brother than her son.”

“Fair,” she allows. The chicken pecks her hand again, and she shakes her head at it. “I'm sorry but I can't just sit here and pet you all day.” 

As if to prove her point, she sets the chicken down and gets to her feet, dusting her hands off on her pants. The bird has other ideas, though, immediately coming back up and pecking her pant leg. 

“You're never gonna get rid of her now,” he teases. “A friend for life, who clearly needs a name now. How ‘bout Sandwich?”

“Sandwich?” Gamora asks, giving him a confused look. 

“Yeah, you know,” he says, like it’s obvious. “Like chicken sandwich.”

She rolls her eyes. “Peter, are you serious?”

“What? No good?” He grins. “How ‘bout Nugget? Strip? Salad? Finger?” 

“I think Sandwich is preferable to any of those,” she says dryly. 

“I agree,” he says. “Especially if it’s got hot sauce on it.” 

She gives him a look. “We are not eating this chicken.”

“I know!” he says, horrified at the thought of eating something they’ve named. “These are egg chickens, babe, don’t worry.” He turns to the newly-named chicken. “What do you think, Sandwich? Do you like your name?”

Sandwich pecks Gamora’s boot again. 

“I’ll take that as a yes,” he says. Then, realizing they’re never going to be able to move on unless he can distract this bird, he tosses the feed he’s still holding onto the ground right next to it. “Here, Sandwich, eat this. I’ve got more farm to show Gamora.”

Sandwich luckily takes the bait and begins pecking away feverishly. Peter takes Gamora’s hand and leads her away while he still can. 

“Let’s go see if you can make friends with one of the cows,” he suggests. “We can name it Burger.” 

“ _Peter_.” She laughs and nudges him with her elbow. 

“Hmmm,” says Peter, pretending to think very hard about it. She’s been smiling and laughing plenty over the past day, but he still wants to capitalize on it as much as possible. “Meatloaf? Meatball? Sausage?”

She shakes her head. “You said the cows are here for their milk and not their meat, didn’t you?”

“Oh, true,” he allows. “Milkshake? Ice Cream?”

“You are going to make me hungry,” she says. 

He shrugs very innocently. “And the problem with that is….”

“You will make me want ice cream for breakfast,” she says pointedly.

“Still don’t see the problem,” says Peter. “S’mores for breakfast were good.”

Her face lights up. “They were. But I thought you were going to show me the cows.”

“Okay, okay.” He holds out an arm very gallantly. “Let’s go meet some cows.”

She takes his arm, takes a few steps, and promptly turns back around. Peter follows her gaze and realizes that Sandwich has started following them again.

He sighs, but it’s affectionate. “Well all right, then. I guess we’ve got a companion.” 

“Will that be okay?” she asks hesitantly, looking between Sandwich and the rest of the chickens, who are all mostly in the same area. “For her to be out on her own?”

“Yeah, it’ll be fine,” he assures her. “They roam free all day. And she’s not on her own, she’s got us.” 

“All right,” she says, visibly pleased. 

Sandwich walks behind them, not pecking or clucking, apparently content just to follow them for now. It’s actually pretty adorable -- but not as adorable as Gamora constantly glancing back at her. 

They soon approach the area where the cows are grazing, still far enough away that the cows don’t notice them but closer than they were at the coop. He can just make out his grandpa on the other side, milking one of them. 

“They really are beautiful,” Gamora says softly, leaning into his side as she looks at them. He’s about to ask her if she wants to go pet one when she suddenly gasps, gaze no longer on the cows but off to the side instead. 

“What?” he asks, on alert for some danger. He tries to follow her line of sight but doesn’t see anything out of the ordinary. 

“That tree,” she says, pointing to an old oak by the adjacent corner of the cow pasture. “I think--I recognize it.”

He almost asks _like the ones on your homeworld?_ before catching himself. He knows there were lots of trees there, and that she associates greenery with her pre-Thanos childhood to this day. Still, he’s pretty sure that’s not what she’s referring to now. 

“You mean--from the Stone?” he asks, swallowing. To be fair, everything she’s told him so far about the farm timeline has been good. But knowing the games the Stone played with her head, he’s willing to bet it’s deceptive somehow. He’s half expecting her to say that this tree somehow fell over and crushed all seven of them simultaneously or something. 

She nods, her expression still mostly unreadable. “Yes. We all carved our names into the trunk. I worried at first that it was disrespectful to the tree, but you convinced me that it was a valued Terran tradition.”

“Oh,” he says on a sigh of relief. “It is!” A memory of that tree floods through him now, too, and he can imagine exactly why they’d chosen that tree to be the canvas for their names. “Did it already have a carving in it?”

She smiles, knowing and sweet. “Yes.” 

“Let’s go see it!” he says, tugging her that way. She laughs freely, and Sandwich hurries along behind them. 

“This is the best tree on the farm,” he declares when they approach it. “Nice wide base, perfect for carving. And lots of branches and leaves for shade.” 

“That is what you told us,” she says fondly. 

“So it’s double true,” he declares. “Now where—there!” 

Carved into the bark of the tree, higher than it had been when he initially carved it, is a very sloppy: _Star Lord_.

“Yes,” Gamora says softly, squeezing his hand. “That is what it was.” 

“I must’ve carved that right before—I left,” he says, a little choked up. “It’s one of the last things I remember doing.” 

“Tell me?” she asks, letting go of his hand to touch his cheek instead. Her fingers are impossibly light, tender as she traces the line of his jaw. Paradoxically, he thinks of his mother -- of the way she used to touch his face, warm and light as sunshine. The way the lightest brush of her fingers could stop his tears, or calm his anger, or bring the truth to his lips, depending on the moment. His mother’s touch was magic and so is Gamora’s, in its own way.

“Um.” He shakes himself, realizing that he’s gotten lost in thought and that she’s looking at him expectantly, though not exactly impatiently. “My mom was in the hospital, so...I guess it was pretty close to the end? It must have been. I was out here pretending to be--you know, like my dad. Like--what she _said_ my dad was. I was pretending I could save her, by going to space and bringing back a cure.”

“Oh, Peter,” she breathes.

“It’s stupid, I know,” he mumbles.

“It is not stupid,” she says firmly. “It’s the farthest thing from stupid. You wanted to help your mother.”

He shrugs a shoulder. It still feels dumb and childish, but then, he _was_ a child. “I wanted to be a hero. Save the day.”

Gamora’s smile is decidedly proud. “And look at you now, _Star-Lord_.” 

“I guess I’m a little heroic,” he says, unable to fight off his own smile, though it’s a bit watery. He’s also unable to fight the urge to lean in and kiss her. Her hand on his cheek is gentle, her thumb stroking his skin. 

He’s pleasantly dazed by the time they pull away, and it takes him a few seconds to remember why they’re here. “So, uh--these carvings. They were our names?”

“Well, we added our names later,” she says. There’s an almost shy note in her voice that’s intriguing him. “But there was something else.”

“What was it?” he asks, beyond curious. 

“Let me show you?” she says, pulling her utility knife out of the back of her boot. 

“Yeah, go for it!” he says eagerly, gesturing to the tree. 

Gamora flicks the blade of her knife open, holds it up to the tree, then hesitates again.

“What is it?” asks Peter, taking a step closer. He can’t see anything that should be stopping her, but then he knows he doesn’t always share her perspective on these things.

“I don’t want to disrespect or hurt the tree,” she says. “I know you said it’s a tradition here…”

“The tree won’t feel it,” he says reassuringly. “I promise. And if it did, it would consider this an honor.”

She nods, visibly steels herself, and begins carving precisely. Her handwriting is different from his--simultaneously more efficient and messier, on the rare occasions that he’s gotten to see it. Right now she’s making bigger, smoother strokes, though. It takes him a moment to realize that she’s emulating _his_ writing, almost as if it’s a sketch rather than letters. He recognizes their initials almost immediately, _P+G_ just like in his notebook.

“ _Oh_ ,” he breathes, flushing much more from pleasure than from embarrassment. And really, he’s only _slightly_ embarrassed at the thought that the rest of the team saw this doodle in that future; they already know what a sap he is. 

And at least it wasn’t all the _Mrs. Quill_ and _Mr. Gamora_ s.

“Whose idea was it?” he asks. “In the future you saw. Mine or yours?”

“I don’t know,” she confesses. “I just know that it was there.” She holds the knife out to him. “Would you like to carve the rest?”

“Yeah!” he says excitedly, taking the knife and holding it carefully. He’s surprisingly touched by the symbolism, not just of the carving itself but of them making it together. It’s a relatively small thing, especially considering they literally got married yesterday, but he treasures it nonetheless.

He carves a heart around their initials with a mostly steady hand. In the end, it doesn’t look nearly as neat as it does when he draws it on paper, but it’s definitely recognizable. 

“Was the arrow there too?” he asks, hesitating briefly.

“Of course,” she says, rubbing his shoulder. 

So he draws that too. The lines at the start and end of the arrow don’t exactly match up, but again: recognizable.

“It’s beautiful,” Gamora says, reverently tracing her finger over a part of the heart. Then she presses her fingertips to her lips, almost the reverse of a kiss. 

“It is,” says Peter. “And so are you.”

She flushes a bit, but rolls her eyes predictably. “ _You_ are a sap.”

“Me?” He hooks a finger toward his own chest, feigning innocence. “I'm not a tree.”

“Peter,” she groans. “That was awful.”

He shrugs and kisses her forehead. “You love me. And I love the idea of that future here.”

“It was nice,” she says softly, a little wistfully. “One of the best.”

“Maybe we could have it,” he says, desperate to take that sadness out of her voice. “Maybe we could just--decide that's what we're gonna do and then do it. I mean, we're already making this tree like the one you saw.”

“I don't know.” Her hand strays to the hem of her shirt, almost subconsciously. 

“Hey,” he says, wrapping his arm around her shoulders. “Maybe it won’t be exactly the same. Maybe it will. But no matter what, we’ll make it a good one. Okay? Whatever one we want.”

Her smile is watery and sweet and not quite convinced, but happy nonetheless. “I like the sound of that.” 

“Good.” He pulls her to him in a hug and she presses a kiss to his chest, right over his heart.

* * *

Later in the afternoon, they’re standing in front of a different piece of wood, this one inside. It’s the door just down the hall from the room they’re staying in, and behind it is his mother’s old room. His grandpa had said he’d kept both this room and Peter’s old room exactly as they were, save the occasional cleaning so they don’t collect too much dust. 

“Are you sure you’re ready for this?” Gamora asks, hand at his back. She’s probably concerned about how hard his heart is pounding right now; plus the fact that he’s just been staring at this door, fingers hovering over the handle, for at least a full minute now. 

“Yes,” he says sincerely. “I’m excited. And nervous. I don’t know why I’m nervous.” 

“Because it has been thirty years since you last saw anything of your mother’s?” she suggests, sounding less surprised or perplexed by his anxiety than he feels. Leave it to Gamora to decipher his nonsensical emotions. 

“I guess?” says Peter. “I mean, kinda. There was my Walkman….” He trails off, throat getting tight like it always does. The Zune is great in its own way, and so is hearing some of the songs he remembers on Knight Rider’s sound system. But nothing will ever quite fill the hole Ego punched in his heart when he crushed the Walkman. 

“But that seems to me like it’s part of the point,” says Gamora, still rubbing his back gently. “These connections to her are _so_ important. And right now we don’t know what new ones might be coming or not.”

“Have I ever told you you’re brilliant?” he asks, then forces himself to turn the knob and push the door open before she can answer.

He immediately has to bite back a sob, almost completely loses his breath. It’s like he’s stepped thirty years into the past. It’s almost exactly how he remembers it, down to the flower rug in the center of the shag carpet and the lava lamp forming and un-forming bright red shapes on the desk. It looks more like a teenager’s room than an adult’s room, which he knows is partly owing to the fact that this was his mother’s childhood room, but it serves to remind him just how _young_ she was. 

There are a couple things that are different. Cassette tapes are neatly stacked in rows on the desk, and the dark blue blanket on the bed is neat and tidy, much neater than his mother ever left it. But everything else is spot on. He almost expects his mom to pop out from under the bed or from behind the beaded curtains that separate the closet. 

“Oh, Peter,” Gamora breathes, sounding almost as emotional as he feels. “You are so like your mother.” 

He has to release his tears at that, but he’s grinning proudly. “Yeah?”

“Yeah,” she echoes. He glances at her to find that there are tears in her eyes too. “I think if we had some of these things on the Quadrant, our room would look a lot like this.” 

“We should totally get some posters,” he says, moving forward to trace his finger over the edge of the nearest one. The corner is torn and it’s faded, but otherwise it’s intact. “We need some David Bowie in our room.” 

“Oh, is that who this is?” she asks almost reverently, tracing her finger where his had been. 

He nods, and swallows past the lump in his throat to say, “I helped my mom hang these up.” He gestures to the rest of the posters, maybe half a dozen, throughout the room. “Apparently my grandpa took all the posters down after my mom left--after she got pregnant with me. He kept them, though. Me and my mom went through them when we moved in here to pick out ones to hang back up. There must’ve been like two hundred. Probably covered every inch of the walls back when she was a teenager.” 

“She loved things just as strongly as you do,” says Gamora, still looking at the David Bowie poster. “Though that doesn’t surprise me. It has always been very clear that you learned your values from her.”

“Yeah,” he says, sniffling and swallowing. “Yeah, I mean--I try. She always said not to apologize for the things you love. Or the people. I know she meant Ego, but--but I still think she was right overall.”

Gamora nods, smiling at him over her shoulder before moving on to the next poster. “Oh! Star Wars! The logo matches our shirts!”

“Yeah!” he says happily. “She’s got the posters for all three! And--” He breaks off when he sees the next poster, his heart speeding up in a different way as he thinks of recent events. 

“And Footloose,” Gamora finishes for him, taking a few steps toward that poster. “This logo looks like the one in the mural.”

“It does,” he agrees. Somehow it’s vindicating to see the poster here. It’s not like he’s ever doubted his memory of how much his mother loved this movie, but it makes his own fond memories feel more justified somehow.

“Who is that?” asks Gamora, jarring him out of those thoughts. “Is that also Han Solo?”

Peter looks in the direction she’s pointing, then laughs warmly. “No, no, that’s Indiana Jones.”

She glances between the poster and the _Empire Strikes Back_ one, and he explains, “It’s the same actor.” 

“Oh!” she says. “Is this Indiana Jones also a space outlaw?”

He shakes his head. He can’t remember much about the movie, but he does remember it being terrestrial. “Nah. He...finds stuff. In old, dangerous places. And also fights bad guys. While wearing a cool hat. And he doesn’t like snakes.”

“I don’t either,” she says, nodding with approval. 

They’ve reached the desk now, which has definitely been tidied up. His mother used to leave it absolutely cluttered, he remembers fondly. Even if he hadn’t been raised by the Ravagers, he’d have had no hope of growing up as a neat person. 

All that’s on the surface of the desk now are the cassettes, the lava lamp, and a picture that makes his throat tighten. It’s him and his mother, each grinning and holding out giant ice cream cones, larger than their heads. 

“From our Disney trip,” he says, seeing that Gamora is looking at it too. “We stopped somewhere that served giant ice creams. If you finished the whole thing, they’d give it to you for free.” 

“And did you?” asks Gamora. 

“Of course!” Peter says proudly. He chooses to omit the part about the horrible stomach aches they’d both gotten afterward. Clearly the important part is that they’d won the ice cream challenge.

That’s the end of things immediately visible in this part of the room, and he takes a deep breath before sitting in the chair at the desk. It’s small for his frame, and low to the ground, making his legs feel cramped. Still, he makes no move to adjust it, allowing himself to feel the space his mother used to occupy, how much smaller she was than he is now.

Taking a deep breath, he opens the top right drawer of the desk, pushing past the feeling that he’s somehow invading her privacy. He gasps as soon as he sees what’s in it. “It’s the postcards! The ones I told you about, from that trip.”

“I remember,” says Gamora, coming to stand over his shoulder. She takes the stack of postcards from him and flips through them slowly. He can see one that reads _Greetings from Tennessee_ , then the next one from North Carolina, then Georgia. 

He’s soon distracted, though, when he glances back into the drawer and sees what else is in there. It’s all stuff from that trip; this must have been his mother’s souvenir drawer. There’s a snowglobe with a mini Smoky Mountains range inside, two paper tickets that are so worn he can just barely make out the words _Magic Kingdom_ on them, a map where their route is traced out with stars and smiley faces at various stops, and two sets of mouse ears. 

They hadn’t been able to afford many souvenirs, he remembers, but his mom had clearly treasured these few that they had. 

“What are those?” Gamora asks, indicating the ears he’s holding. 

“They’re Mickey ears!” he says, delicately grabbing the larger of the two and showing her the hat part. “From Disney. He’s the mouse.”

“Oh, yes,” she says. “The ruler. Well, they are adorable.” 

“Oh, are they?” asks Peter, unable to help himself from thinking about her usual objections to being called anything resembling cute. It makes it _extra_ adorable when she says it about something else. Smiling a bit mischievously, he adjusts the ears to open out the hat part, then carefully places it on her head.

He’s reminded for just a moment of that first night on Knowhere, of the way she’d tensed ever so slightly when he’d put the headphones on her. How she’d seemed surprised to find it something so innocuous, even pleasant.

Now, she raises an eyebrow at him. “How do I look as a mouse king?”

“Very--” He breaks off, trying not to laugh as he resists the urge to call her cute. It’s more than just teasing, it really _is_ the most apt word to describe the way she looks right now. “Um. Regal?”

Gamora rolls her eyes. “I know you’re thinking it, Peter.”

“What?” he asks innocently. 

“I am not cute,” she says, scrunching her face up in a way she’s gotta know makes her all the more adorable. 

He just can’t help but laugh now. “I hate to break it to ya, babe, but you really, really are. Must be the magic of Mickey.” 

She softens and carefully takes the ears off to hand back to him. “I suppose I will allow it this one time. For Mickey.”

“Good,” he says, holding onto the ears for another moment before putting them back in the drawer gently, as if they might disintegrate with the wrong movement. He closes that drawer before he can get hung up staring at its contents for hours, knowing there’s so much more to look at. 

The drawer below is slightly larger and seems to stick a bit. When he finally gets it open he discovers why: it’s filled all the way to the top with pieces of paper of all shapes and colors. He has to push down on the stack to get the drawer to open all the way. 

“Are those more pole cards?” asks Gamora, shifting even closer to look over his shoulder with her characteristic combination of concern and curiosity.

“ _Post_ cards,” he corrects gently, then shakes his head. “And no. These are um--These are things that I made for her.”

He can’t help blushing a little as he takes out the top of the stack and sets them on the edge of the bed. It’s not like he’s forgotten how many of these things he made for her--multiple things, pretty much every day--but it still feels surprisingly vulnerable to share them, even with her. The top one is an action scene, two crayon stick figures that are clearly him and his mom. They’re outside somewhere, probably in the yard, bravely fighting a swarm of invading green blobs with what he’s pretty sure are supposed to be lightsabers. 

“See?” he says, picking it up and showing it to Gamora. “I was always destined to be a Guardian.”

“Yes, you were,” she says, sounding completely sincere. She keeps her hand on his shoulder, rubbing gently as he continues to go through the enormous stack. There’s all kinds of drawings and cards, made by hand from folded construction paper. Below the lightsaber battle one is a drawing of him and his mom in what he’s guessing is a UFO, flying through space. There’s one of a turkey made by tracing his hand and a roughly drawn Christmas tree. 

He picks up one that’s in the shape of a heart, _’I lvoe you, mom’_ written messily over it. Spelling mistakes are common in these, much more common, he knows, than they were for the other kids his age. Not a single sentence or phrase he’s written here is without at least one.

Gamora knows about this. He’s told her how he always got letters and numbers mixed up, but he still finds his blush deepening at the evidence that’s scattered in front of them. 

She doesn’t seem to notice or care about that, though. “You made so many,” she whispers, sounding awed. She traces a finger over a drawing of a stick figure on a stage -- himself in concert, probably. 

“Yeah, I did,” he says with a watery laugh, tears streaming down his cheeks. He wipes his face with the back of his arm. “God, she must’ve kept them all.” 

“I would have too,” says Gamora, leaning into him, arm half around his shoulder, though it’s a bit awkward with her standing and him sitting. 

“Gamora!” He feigns shock. “Careful or I’m going to start thinking you’re secretly sentimental.”

She rolls her eyes. “You will think what you want to think, no matter what I do.”

“True,” says Peter. “I am a stubborn jerk like that.”

“ _My_ stubborn jerk,” she says possessively, and he just about melts.

He’s going to answer that, going to say something about how she absolutely _is_ sentimental--about dancing, and her hair, and that stupid white shirt of his that she still wears despite having at least a dozen other possibilities available to her. But the next drawing he picks up makes his heart pound in a whole different way. It’s another one of him and his mom, this time standing in front of the house, smiling. Next to them is a third figure, this one surrounded by what looks like a pool of light.

“I guess--” He breaks off, swallows hard. “I guess that was supposed to be my dad.”

“Oh,” she says, tone shifting to a somber one. “You did say your mother described him as an angel.” 

He nods. The back of his eyes and his throat feel like they’re burning, and he blinks to release more tears. He drops the drawing back onto the bed before he can give into the urge to tear it in half, right through the stick-figure father he’d drawn. His mother had kept this, he reminds himself, and that’s the only thing keeping him from destroying it. 

“I wonder if I ever made my mom feel bad,” he says, staring down at the figure. He’d drawn him tall and with a wide smile, his hair the same color as the little figure of himself. “You know, because I wanted a dad too. I hope I never made her feel like she wasn’t enough.”

“Peter,” Gamora whispers. She bends down so she can hug him more completely, though still from the side. “It’s a natural desire, one I’m sure she understood. And look at all of this.” She gestures to the papers on the bed. “These are almost entirely of you and your mother. She knew how much you loved her. I’m sure of that.”

“I did,” says Peter, a sob escaping despite him. He tries to get a handle on his emotions, to keep the tears at least at a minimum, but that’s never really been in his control. “I really did. I _do_.” 

There’s absolutely nothing he can do to control the tears then, sobs coming faster and harder as the grief spreads through his chest, twisting cruelly behind his sternum. It’s not like any of these things are unwelcome. Far from it, in fact. And yet somehow feeling so close to his mother for the first time in thirty years makes her loss fresh again, old wounds torn right open. He’s avoided coming back for this exact reason, he realizes, a finality to seeing her room, her things, her _home_ without her that he’s only now allowing himself to face. The fact that he’s finally gotten to the bottom of the stack only to find a few get-well cards doesn’t help, brings on an even more overwhelming flood of emotions.

“I’m here,” Gamora breathes, running a hand through his hair, though her own voice is tinged with tears. “I’ve got you.” 

He turns so that his face is buried against her abdomen, hands gripping her hips like she’s the only thing keeping him grounded in the slightest.

“It’s okay, sweetheart, it’s okay,” she says softly. “Let it out.” She continues to murmur soothing words as she rocks him slightly and strokes his hair, and he continues to cry. He cries in pain and sadness and fresh mourning, until he’s wrung out and gasping. Then he cries some more for good measure. 

“She deserved so much better,” he sobs, barely comprehensible even to his own ears. 

“She deserved much better than what happened to her,” Gamora agrees quietly but firmly. “But she did have you. And you are the greatest gift the universe has to offer.” 

He has to laugh, even though it’s not really funny and it makes him cry even harder. It’s just that he knows, deep down, his mother would agree with her, and he wishes for about the millionth time that the two of them could have met. 

“You’re a bit biased,” he chokes out. 

“Nonsense,” she says. Her hand in his hair has slowed slightly; she’s running her fingers through in long, deliberate strokes that make him melt. He takes some concentrated breaths through the tears, noting as he does that Gamora is breathing deeply along with him, guiding him as she sometimes does, whether consciously or not. 

“I guess--” he says, breaking off to sniffle, then clear his throat. “I guess you _are_ also the most brilliant woman in the universe.” He needs her to know how much he appreciates her, even as he doubts himself. Even as he finds himself especially unable to form intelligent words to articulate it. 

“So you have said,” she allows, then shifts back just a bit so that she can make eye contact. “How about we lie down?”

He blinks, not having considered that, though it _does_ sound good now that he allows himself to think about how drained he’s feeling, and how much his head is pounding; as always, when he loses control of his emotions. “Here?”

“Yes,” she says, gesturing toward the bed. “It is functional, isn’t it?”

“I--yeah,” he says. But of course that makes new memories stir, too. He thinks of lying with his mother in this bed after awakening from nightmares. And to make her feel better when she’d been too sick to get out of it. He also remembers lying in it after she’d gone to the hospital to stay, crying into the pillow that still smelled vaguely like her, as if that might be able to make anything all right.

“We don’t have to,” Gamora says quickly. “Whatever you need, Peter, I just want to help you.” 

“No--I mean yeah.” He clears his throat. He is not going to deny himself connections to his mother because they might also come with pain, he’s _not_. He’ll take every connection he can get. “Let’s lie down.” 

“If you’re sure.” She waits for his nod before extracting herself from his arms only enough to assemble the cards and drawings on the bed into a neat stack and place them with great care back into the drawer. He watches her, feeling sort of like he can’t move or do anything until she’s there to instruct him, not an uncommon feeling when he gets upset like this. 

Luckily, it only takes her a few seconds, then she’s back with her hands on his shoulders, guiding him out of the chair and onto the bed. She lies partially upright against the headboard and pulls him down gently to lean against her, head against her chest. 

He closes his eyes, allowing himself to sink into her and the bed, both soft and comfortable. His head is pounding slightly less already. 

Gamora resumes stroking his hair, and his back at the same time. For a long moment he allows himself to drift, pretending that he’s a kid again, that he’s at home and safe and immune from any of the bad, painful things in the universe. Eventually he has to open his eyes again, though, because he doesn’t want to lose track of the present, either. Painful as it might be, he’s surrounded by so many precious things. 

“Hi,” Gamora breathes, meeting his eyes as he opens his own. 

“Hi,” he echoes, smiling weakly. “You’re beautiful.”

For once he doesn’t keep his gaze on her for too long, though, scanning the room again. He feels almost desperate to look at it, to experience everything. There’s a familiar fear gnawing at the back of his mind, that this will turn out not to be real somehow, or be taken away prematurely, like so many other precious things in his life.

“It really is a lovely room,” Gamora says. “You can see so much of her personality in it.”

“Yeah,” he says fondly. “You can.”

His visual sweep of the room comes almost full circle, about to slide right past the nightstand on the side of the bed. There’s a picture frame on it, with one of his school photos in it, as well as a teddy bear his mom had kept from childhood. He’d seen both of those things when they first came in the room. They’d appeared, at that angle, to be the only things on the nightstand. 

But now, looking at it from the other side, he can see something he missed before, something laying behind the teddy bear. 

Every muscle in his body freezes. 

“What is it?” Gamora asks, apparently sensing that tension. “What’s wrong?”

He doesn’t say anything, can’t muster words just yet. Instead, he lifts a shaky finger and points at the nightstand, and his mother’s Walkman laying on it, headphones and all. 

“ _Oh,_ ” she breathes, every bit as much surprise and reverence in her voice as he feels right now. 

Peter isn’t sure he’s ever loved her as much as he does in this moment, seeing and hearing and _feeling_ her understanding. She loves these things too, he realizes, not just because he does, but because they’ve become an extension of her own family, her own sense of home.

He forces himself to take several shaky breaths before reaching out for the Walkman, his hands steady because it’s far too important for anything less. The battery door is open, he notices immediately, that compartment empty. Which is good, really--It means his grandfather must have thought about old batteries leaking acid, must have wanted to protect it from that. Examining it more closely, he realizes that there’s a tape inside, one of the older mixes. It says _Awesome Songs_ in his mother’s handwriting, and he realizes with a jolt that he either can’t remember or has never known exactly what’s on it.

“Do you want to listen to it?” asks Gamora, still watching him, taking in every moment of this.

He considers, knowing that his grandpa probably has batteries around the house, that he could probably do just that right now if he wanted to. But his mind is still reeling from all of the memories, all of the revelations. Right now, he thinks, he wants to stay here in bed with Gamora, with the unrealized possibility cradled in his hands.

“Later,” he tells her, and settles back, content for now in this space between the past and the future.


	29. Chapter 29

“Are you sure I’m doing this right?” Gamora asks skeptically. 

Peter pauses his hunt for a proper baking sheet to stand up and peer into the bowl of dough she’s been mixing. She’s got her hands in it, as she’d long ago grown frustrated with mixing it with a spoon, so now it looks like she’s wearing lumpy, gooey white gloves. 

“Oh, yeah!” he says eagerly. “It looks perfect, babe, just like I remember it.” 

“It’s so _sticky_ ,” she says. She’s not complaining; it’s more like she’s suspscious of the dough and its clingy nature. She attempts to remove some from one hand only to get it stuck on the other. “Do Terrans not have premade biscuits available?” 

He shrugs. “Probably. But homemade is better. That’s what my mom always said.” 

“Then I am sure she was correct,” Gamora says firmly, turning back to the dough, the matter settled. 

He smiles fondly and bends back down to continue his search through the lower cabinets. He’s sure his grandpa could tell him where to find the baking sheets, but Peter and Gamora had informed him that _they_ were going to be making breakfast this morning, and he’s determined that they’re going to do it all themselves. They’ve cooked on the ships plenty of time; how different could a Terran kitchen be? 

“I just hope I can do your mother justice,” Gamora admits. 

She’s watching him when he glances up from the latest cabinet of stuff he doesn’t need, waiting for him to emerge with the baking sheets. She’s also still wiping dough back and forth between her hands, too, which is somehow way more amusing than it probably should be. He bites back a smile and looks in the cabinet next to the fridge.

“What?” she asks, clearly having seen his expression despite the fact that he’s looked away pretty quickly.

“Nothing,” he says innocently. This cabinet is full of small, old appliances that look like they haven’t seen the light of day in decades. One that he’s pretty sure is a mixer, another that he thinks his mom might have used for smoothies once. Other parts he doesn’t recognize at all.

“Peter,” Gamora demands.

He snorts. “Okay, okay. You with the dough stuck to your hands? Reminded me of that time Groot was a baby and Rocket asked him to hold a piece of tape.”

He can feel Gamora glaring at him. “If that is your way of attempting to tell me you think I did something _cute_ \--”

“I would never, babe,” he says, but he can’t hide the snicker in his voice. 

“Good,” she says. “Because I said I would allow it that _once_.”

“I know, I know, you’re not cute at all.” He hides his smirk by sticking his head farther into the cabinet. 

That actually ends up helping, because he discovers a baking pan on the shelf in the back, buried under an assortment of lids of various sizes and shapes. He’s attempting to carefully extract it out from under them, working slowly and with surgical precision, when Gamora says suddenly, “Peter! I need your help.” 

“Coming--ah!” In his rush to come to her aid, he yanks the pan the rest of the way out, causing the lids on top of it to topple and fall, crashing into the cookware below. The clanging sounds are so loud that he jerks his head out without care and ends up banging it on the top of the cabinet before he finally emerges, falling with an _”Oof!”_ onto his backside. 

Gamora is staring at him with a look somewhere between amusement and concern. “Are you okay?” 

“Fine, fine,” says Peter, running a hand through his hair like that might negate the impact of his head against the cabinet. In reality it barely hurts at all, was more of a surprise than anything else. Still, his pride has taken a definite bruising. He scrambles to get up, puts a hand down on top of one of the lids by accident, and promptly slips down onto his ass again. 

“Peter--” Gamora starts.

He shakes his head, though, this time using the counter to pull himself up to his feet. “I’m fine, see? Fine. What did you need?”

“My phone is ringing,” she says. “For the second time now. But I can’t answer it, because my hands are--indisposed.” 

“Oh!” he says, hearing it clearly now that he’s not distracted by his own clumsiness. “Right. Where is it?”

“Back pocket,” she tells him, then rolls her eyes when he immediately leers at her ass. 

“That’s a good place for it,” says Peter, taking his time as he digs out the phone, definitely taking the opportunity to feel her up just a bit as he does it. Then he glances down at the phone. “Oh! It’s Nebula! Guess she must have taken a break in the torturing people!”

“Are you going to take a break in squeezing my ass to answer it?” she asks, her dry tone ruined by the adorable smirk on her face. 

“You’ve got no faith in my multi-tasking abilities,” he says, keeping one hand firmly in her back pocket while he holds the phone close to his face with the other. He answers it with a wide grin. 

He’s greeted with a disdainful look from Nebula. “Took you long enough. And why are _you_ always answering my sister’s phone?”

“I don’t know,”, he says, pretending to be puzzled. “I think she likes me or something. She keeps me around for some reason.”

Nebula rolls her eyes almost in sync with Gamora, which is pretty impressive. “I suppose she is nearby, then?”

“Hello, Nebula,” Gamora calls. Peter stretches his arm out in front of her and rests his head on her shoulder so they’re both in frame. “Sorry,” she continues. “My hands are currently doughy.” 

Nebula fixes her with a blank look until Gamora lifts her hands to show her. Nebula wrinkles her nose. “That is disgusting.” 

“It’s gonna be delicious, actually,” Peter says.

“What is it?” Nebula asks suspiciously. “Is it going to be fried?”

“Bisquicks and gravy!” Gamora says proudly, still holding up her sticky hands. She looks so ridiculous and also so domestic that it makes his heart physically ache. 

“Biscuits,” he corrects, narrowly managing to bite back a giggle. “Though they are made from Bisquick, so I guess you're kinda right. And no, they aren't fried. Sorry to disappoint you.”

“Not all Terran food is fried or sugary,” Gamora says sagely. “Though the foods that _are_...” She trails off, something approaching a dreamy look in her eyes. 

“You are going to get fat,” says Nebula. “Like your dumb boyfriend and the rest of his dumb planet.”

“Hey!” says Peter. “I'll have you know that--"

“Husband, actually,” Gamora interrupts, which shuts him right up. 

Nebula blinks. “What?”

“He isn't my dumb boyfriend anymore,” says Gamora, “he's my dumb--" She breaks off, clears her throat. “He's my _husband._ ”

“That’s right!” Peter says gleefully. He’d forgotten that Nebula doesn’t know, and that they get to tell someone else now. He points to Gamora. “She’s my wife!”

Nebula looks at them for a long moment, expression unreadable. To him, anyway. Gamora seems amused. She can probably tell what her sister is thinking. He hopes it’s good. He doesn’t think Nebula actually dislikes him, and he is certain she wants her sister to be happy. 

“Are you serious?” she asks eventually. “Or is this another one of your _’jokes’_?”

“We are serious, Nebula,” Gamora says. “We got married two days ago. That’s why we called you when you were gathering information.” 

“Yeah, see?” Peter says, delicately taking hold of Gamora’s mini-braid and holding it up so Nebula can see the silver bead on the end of it. He doesn’t know if she’d know the significance of it, but it’s the only proof they’ve got at the moment. “This means she’s married! To me! Her husband. So I’m your brother-in-law now! Hey, sis!” 

“Ugh,” says Nebula, though at least she appears to be taking this seriously now. “I thought you were an _out_ law.”

“True!” Peter agrees, grinning. “I guess that makes me your brother-out-law. That does have a better ring to it!”

She opens her mouth, closes it again, and makes a huffy little noise, apparently at a loss for a sufficiently biting comeback. Which actually feels like sort of an achievement, if he thinks about it.

“How did this happen?” Nebula asks finally, apparently having decided to accept the truth of it. She sounds as though she might be asking about some horrific accident. 

“Well,” says Gamora, “remember that wedding chapel we passed the last time we were talking to you?”

“You said you were not going to do anything rash,” says Nebula. 

“And we didn't!” Peter says. “We just had Stark rush a certificate through for us so we could get married at a cute roadside--" He pauses, runs a hand through his hair as he realizes how this is coming out. “You're just jealous that you were too busy maiming to witness the ceremony.”

“I believe Mantis filmed it for you,” Gamora informs her. “You should ask her to send it to you.”

“Ugh.” Nebula makes a face like she’s smelled something foul. “Why would I seek out evidence of how disgustingly emotional you two are? I’ve got more evidence than I want in front of me already.”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” Peter says. He gives Gamora an exaggerated, sloppy kiss on the cheek, complete with a _’muah’_ noise when he pulls away. Gamora laughs -- _giggles_ , really, and playfully turns his face away with her doughy fingers. 

Peter grins mischievously, but gasps aloud at Nebula’s reaction. “Are you _smiling_?”

“No!” Nebula says sharply, glaring at him like she wants to murder him. But he just laughs, because her lips were definitely twitching for a second. 

“I think you were,” Gamora says, sounding just a little surprised, and kind of touched. 

Nebula makes a frustrated noise. “Would you like to hear my news or not?” 

“Did you learn anything?” Gamora asks, immediately switching tones. Peter sobers up too. He’d almost forgotten what Nebula’s been doing. 

“Yes,” Nebula says. “I learned that all of your sources are useless.” 

“All of them?” asks Gamora, sounding slightly incredulous. 

“Yes,” says Nebula, like it ought to be obvious. “They are all useless. Not that that is entirely surprising to me. You were always more show than delivery, sister.”

“Hey!” says Peter, feeling instantly protective of her, though it’s not like he’s unaware that this is the way she and Nebula interact. He also knows that it’s more for show than anything else at this point, that Nebula reverts back to competition and insults when she’s unsure of how to express her emotions or her doubts.

“There were at least half a dozen names on the list!” says Gamora, ignoring both the barb and Peter’s reaction to it. 

“And they were all useless,” Nebula repeats.

“You talked to them _all_ already?” asks Gamora skeptically. “It’s only been two days!”

This time Nebula definitely smirks. “You say that as if you doubt my efficiency.”

Gamora looks far from amused, though. Her near-giddy mood from seconds ago has melted away into a worried frown. 

“C’mon,” Peter says to Nebula, almost desperately. “One of them must have told you _something_.” 

“I have a lead,” she admits. “The last one told me that the only being who may know this kind of thing would be a Watcher. So I’m going to find one of them.” 

“Wait, wait,” Peter says, mind boggling. “Watchers are real? I thought they were a myth.” 

“Yes,” Gamora answers. Her frown has only deepened. “They are real. But they are difficult to find, and they adhere to a strict policy of non-interference. Even if you are able to locate one, they may not tell you anything.” 

“Oh, they will tell me,” Nebula says, her smirk reaching absolutely terrifying levels. “I will make sure of it.”

“This sounds like a great lead,” Peter says, trying to sound encouraging for Gamora’s sake, even though he really doesn’t know if this is a realistic plan or an insane one. “It’s not like she’d be asking them to _do_ anything, so it’s not really interference.” 

“She would be asking them to provide information to us that we may not otherwise be fated to have,” says Gamora, shooting a pointed look in Nebula’s direction, though it’s spoken in response to Peter’s statement. The seriousness of her glare is undercut slightly by the fact that she _still_ has sticky globs of dough all over her hands, plus a bit of flour on one cheek.

“So?” He shrugs, still trying to look casual, partly for her benefit but also because now he _really_ wants someone to promise him that he isn’t about to lose her all over again to some cruel trick of the Stone.

“So, information can very much influence the fate of the universe,” says Gamora.

“Yes,” Nebula agrees. “Take her and the Soul Stone, for instance. Had she not given its location to Thanos, things could have gone _very_ differently.”

Gamora nearly winces and Peter bristles. “Hey! There was only one timeline where we won, remember?” 

Nebula opens her mouth to say something, probably something cruel and unnecessarily defensive, but Gamora speaks first. “I made a decision, and you are still here so I do not regret it.” 

Nebula’s face is twisted in apparent anger, but Peter doesn’t think she’s actually angry. He may not be able to read her as well as Gamora can, but he does know that, much as she pretends otherwise, she has feelings besides anger; anger is just the only one she’s comfortable expressing a lot of the time. 

“It was not worth it,” she insists. 

“I disagree,” Gamora says coolly. She shares a look with Peter, and he could melt at the look in her eyes. “Sometimes one person is worth everything.” 

“And now you’re gonna be disgusting again,” Nebula mutters, but there’s barely any venom in her tone. “Look, do you want me to get this information or not?”

“I want you to be safe.”

Nebula rolls her eyes for like the tenth time since this conversation began. “The Watchers are powerful but they’re not dangerous. I have heard of one who is...sympathetic to the plights of the rest of the galaxy. I am going to find him.” 

“I don’t know if that’s possible,” Gamora insists, her jaw still tense. It’s clear that she wants it to be true, but isn’t willing or able to believe it.

“For years, you said that about defeating Thanos,” Nebula points out. “And now look.”

“Yes,” Gamora says somewhat bitterly. “He was defeated in spite of my failings.”

“No,” says Peter. “No way. We couldn’t have done it without you. Plus, you literally just said that you don’t regret the choices you made.”

“Exactly,” says Nebula. “You cannot simultaneously blame yourself _and_ tell me that you are glad I am alive. So which is it, sister?” She looks at Peter and her expression sours. “Ugh, I just agreed with you.”

Gamora opens her mouth, closes it again, then huffs. She hates admitting she’s wrong more than most things, but she’s even more unwilling to let Nebula turn this conversation into self-flagellation. Funny how that double standard works. “You are right. I may not like some of the consequences of my actions, but I would make the same choices again.”

“Ha,” Nebula says triumphantly. “You admitted that I was right.”

Gamora pouts, mostly playfully. Like half playfully. “I admitted that you were right that _I_ was right previously.” 

Peter laughs and slides his hand from her back pocket to her waist so he can give her a supportive squeeze. “I think that counts, babe.” 

Gamora sighs, but the look she gives Nebula is decidedly affectionate. “You are right about many things. And I trust your instincts about the Watchers. As long as you are certain you want to do this.”

“Of course I’m certain,” Nebula says, with the attitude of a moody teenager who’s just been asked the Dumbest Question Ever. No wonder she and Groot get along so well. “I intend to see this mission through.” 

“Thank you,” Gamora says earnestly. She lifts her hand as if to touch the screen, then seems to realize that it’s still covered in dough and lowers it again. 

Still, her intention was clear, and Peter can see Nebula’s throat work in response. She looks between him and Gamora and for a moment Peter thinks she’s just going to hang up without another word, the emotions in this conversation too much for her. But at last she says, as if every word causes her physical pain, “I am happy for you.” 

“Thank you,” Gamora says again, her tone even more soft and sincere than before, if that’s possible. 

Nebula wrinkles her nose. “Yeah, yeah. I’m hanging up now before this gets any worse.”

Gamora nods, then seems to change her mind abruptly. “Wait!”

Nebula eyes her suspiciously, but drops her hand partway to ending the call. “ _What?_ ”

“When this is over,” says Gamora, her tone more tentative now, not unsure but cautious. “What will you do?”

Nebula shakes her head dismissively. “There are still plenty of those sympathetic to Thanos around. Plenty more for me to kill.”

Gamora sighs, her expression shifting toward sadness. “Do you think maybe--maybe at some point you might take a break from the revenge mission?”

“Why would I do that?” asks Nebula, like the question is utterly ridiculous.

“You have been fighting one battle or another your entire life,” says Gamora. “Why not do something for yourself just for a while?”

She scoffs. “Like what?”

Gamora shrugs, trying and failing to look casual. “Perhaps come visit this farm with us? There is a type of animal near here I think you would like.”

Peter just stares at Gamora for a second in amazement, suddenly finding it difficult not to cry from joy. It seems like a simple enough thing for her to say, but the fact that she’s thinking about the possibility of a happy future at all, let alone taking steps to try to make one happen, is a huge deal compared to where she was mentally just a few days ago. 

Resisting the urge to either burst into tears or kiss her, he turns back to the phone and imitates Gamora’s casual tone. “Yeah! They’re super...powerful animals. Majestic. You would totally love them.”

Nebula looks at the two of them like they _have_ burst into spontaneous tears. “You’re acting weird. Even for you two.”

“I really do think you would enjoy it here,” Gamora says sincerely. “You deserve a break.”

“And you think I’d want to take a break on that deep fried swamp of a planet?” Nebula asks incredulously. “You cannot be serious.” 

“You should give it a chance,” Peter says, reminding himself not to take offense; Nebula has nothing but insults for most planets. 

“Can I kill people there?” she asks.

“No!” Gamora says quickly. 

“Pass,” Nebula says dryly, then hangs up. 

“Well,” says Peter, wanting to know her thoughts, to make sure she’s as okay as possible. He’s not entirely sure how to do that, though. The conversation was a pretty thorough mix of good and bad. “That sure was--something.”

“It was good,” says Gamora. “Mostly.” She frowns a bit. “Though I am apprehensive about her plan to seek out the Watchers.”

Peter nods. “Are you worried for her or for them?”

A smile tugs at the edges of her lips. “Both, perhaps. If they needed to worry about anyone, it would be my sister.”

“She loves you a lot,” says Peter. “And so do I.” He sweeps her hair off the back of her neck and then drops a kiss there.

“I had no idea,” Gamora says dryly. She holds her doughy hands out toward him again. “Are we going to put these biscuits in the oven or was this just a trick to make me get my hands messy?”

“Oh!” He realizes belatedly that he’s abandoned the baking sheet on the counter, and also that there are still lids all over the floor. He probably shouldn’t just leave those lying around. “Right.”

Deciding that getting the biscuits ready is Priority Number One, he ignores the lids for the moment and moves the pan next to the bowl. “All you gotta do is plop the dough onto the sheet in small blobs. I’d say you can use a spoon, but I don’t think you’re worried about getting your hands doughy.” 

“It’s a bit late for that,” she agrees. She pinches a truly tiny blob of dough between her fingers and holds it out to him. “Is this enough? How much will they expand?”

He chuckles. “Not that much. More like this.” He grabs a much bigger hunk of dough and drops it onto the sheet, grinning at the memories it stirs. “My mom used to let me do this part. She said I was the perfect little helper for it because a handful for me was just the right amount of dough.” 

“I imagine you enjoyed this part,” she says. She doesn’t seem to be having a bad time either, her grin almost child-like as she grabs a small handful of dough and plops it into the sheet next to his. 

“Don’t know where you got that idea.” He flicks a tiny bit of dough off his finger and onto her nose. 

“Hey!” Gamora exclaims. There’s surprise in her eyes, but also a flare of what he recognizes as competitiveness. “You fight dirty.”

“Oh, and you don’t?” he goads. Since his hands are already doughy too, he takes another couple handfuls and puts them on the sheet. In truth these are probably bigger than the ones he made as a kid, but there’s no harm in having bigger biscuits, right? His stomach is bigger now too.

“I absolutely do,” says Gamora, grinning wickedly. He’s expecting her to do something devious--like put her sticky hands on his face, or maybe run them down his back under his shirt. Instead she turns over her shoulder and practically face plants into his chest, rubbing her nose across it.

Peter giggles helplessly, then decides the game is on and takes hold of her upper arms, smearing considerably more dough along her skin. It makes sticky hand prints, with streaks where the fingers should be.

“Peter!” she shrieks, looking shocked though she really, really shouldn’t be.

“What?” he asks, holding his hands up in surrender, perfectly innocent. “Oh, did I get you messy?” 

She narrows her eyes and, without breaking eye contact, reaches her hand into the bowl for a heaping handful. 

“Whoa, whoa, whoa!” He laughs at her ridiculousness, taking a step back. “We gotta save enough for the biscuits, babe!” 

She gives him a calculating look, and he’s about eighty percent sure she’s gonna ignore him and lob the whole thing at his face, which would admittedly be hilarious and far from their first food fight. But instead, she drops the handful onto the baking sheet, practically on top of one of the other blobs. 

She’s definitely not surrendering, though. 

“Whoa, what are you doing?” he asks, as she takes a step to close the distance between them. She’s got her hands at her sides, and her face is awfully close to his. 

She tilts her head, an entirely unconvincing look of confusion on her face. “What do you mean? I can’t just want to kiss my husband?”

He melts. “I know you’re trying to distract me.” 

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” she says before she’s kissing him, and he honestly doesn’t care if she takes the whole bowl of dough and upends it over his head. 

Instead she leans further in and runs her wet, sticky hand up the back of his neck, then into his hair. She plants the other one against his cheek, but he doesn't even flinch, because she's still kissing him. 

She's grinning wickedly when they finally break apart, clearly expecting him to be horrified by the bits of dough he's now wearing as hair gel. 

“What now?” she challenges. 

“Oh no,” Peter deadpans. “Now I'll have to take a shower. Probably with you. I don't know how I could ever be expected to cope.”

She snorts. “Fair point. I suppose my attack was based on faulty strategy.”

She reaches into the bowl again, obviously intending to make another attempt at revenge. But then there's the unmistakable sound of footsteps on the stairs, and they both freeze. 

Gamora has just enough time to drop the handful of dough she’d grabbed and lift her hands innocently -- like Groot when he was younger and they frequently caught him sneaking into the candy stash -- before his grandpa comes around the corner. 

George stops in his tracks at the sight of them. Gamora’s got dough all over her arms and hands, plus some still smeared on her nose. Peter can only imagine what his hair looks like. There’s still lids on the floor as well as flecks of dough, and the counter is a mess of flour from when they’d been mixing. 

For a second, he expects his grandpa to yell at him. That’s what he’d have done thirty years ago if he’d caught Peter making a mess like this. He’d have put his hands on his hips and said _Can’t you take anything seriously, Pete?_ and _Not everything is a game_ and _You’re going to scrub these counters until they’re spotless_. 

It’s not thirty years ago, though. Instead, George’s face breaks into a grin and he laughs. “You’ve got more dough on yourselves than the pan.” 

Gamora, her cheeks a darker shade of green than usual, points a sticky finger at Peter. “He started it.” 

“Hey!” Peter says, nudging her. “Traitor.”

“We will clean it all up,” she assures George, who shakes his head, still smiling. 

“Don’t worry about it, dear. I’m glad you’re having fun.” He glances back at the blobs of biscuit dough on the baking sheet, many of them melding together, one of them half over the edge and steadily dripping small pieces onto the counter. “And we’ve got plenty of eggs if you need a backup plan.”

* * *

It’s not as though Peter was unaware of the differences between Knight Rider and other cars, but the contrast feels especially large as he sits in the back of his grandpa’s truck, crammed onto the tiny seat. True, he could have chosen to sit up front in the passenger seat, or Gamora could have, but then that would have meant that they weren’t sitting together, so...he’ll take it. He’s definitely not complaining about the way her hip is pressed up against his, or the smell of her newly-washed hair reminding him of the very pleasant shower they’ve recently shared. So, to be fair, there’s definitely some good things about it.

On the other hand, Knight Rider’s adaptable leather seats are inarguably more comfortable, less affected by the dirt backroads George is currently driving on. Plus, bickering with Knight Rider would be a very pleasant distraction right now.

As if sensing his thoughts, Gamora slips her hand under one of his where it rests on his thigh, lacing their fingers and squeezing gently. “Are you all right?”

“Yeah,” he says, but his voice cracks. He clears his throat. “Yeah.” 

She doesn’t seem like she believes him, but his grandpa is two feet away from them so she doesn’t call him out on it. She just strokes her thumb over the back of his hand, offering him the silent support she so often does. 

He glances down at their hands, then at his other one, currently clutched gently around the bouquet of flowers they’d picked up from the general store about a mile back. He has no idea what type they are, and neither does George. Meredith had never had a favorite, he’d said, so he just tries to pick a different type each time. 

Peter had never known that about his mother. After all this time, he learned something new about her. 

“We’re here,” George says. Peter lifts his head to see that they’re pulling into the parking lot of a church he vaguely recognizes as one he’d gone to with his mom and grandpa the last Christmas he’d been on Earth. 

The parking lot is almost completely empty but George parks in the back of it because the church isn’t their destination. 

He’d never paid much attention to the graveyard behind the church, aside from the one time some of the older boys tried to dare him into spending a night in it alone with the ghosts. He’d been far too scared at the time, though more of disappointing his mother than of anything supernatural. He’d ended up telling a completely unconvincing lie about a surprise visit from his dad, which had done absolutely nothing to prevent the inevitable teasing.

Now he takes it in for the first time as an adult, as a visitor here not to gawk at or speculate about the macabre, but to visit a loved one. It’s bigger than he remembers, a simple field behind the church cultivated into neat rows of headstones. There are flowers on several of the other graves, he sees, and other small gifts. 

“Your mother would have loved this weather,” says George, the tension in his tone betraying the sense of routine nonchalance he’s been trying to project since they left the house.

It’s something they have in common, Peter realizes with a shock.

“Yeah,” he agrees, going for that same casual tone with, he imagines, the same amount of success. “Sunny; warm enough to sit outside without a sweater.” 

“Your mother enjoyed warm weather?” Gamora asks. He smiles gratefully at her, because, while she’s always genuinely interested in learning about his mom, he suspects she also senses his and his grandpa’s need for a light conversation right now. 

“Oh, yeah,” he says, swallowing past a lump in his throat. “She loved being outside, and taking in the sunshine. Listening to music in the grass.” 

George nods in agreement but doesn’t say anything. Can’t, perhaps. Peter wonders if the two of them are experiencing the same tightness in the throat that’s gripping him now. 

Silence falls over the car. Despite the fact that George has turned the car off, none of them have yet made a move to get out. Peter feels almost paralyzed, the prospect of actually going to visit his mother’s grave for the first time so daunting that he’s not sure he can make himself move. 

“Ready, Pete?” asks George, as if sensing that thought, or maybe needing something to get his own momentum going.

Peter swallows hard again, trying to get his voice to work; trying to get anything to work. He remembers suddenly that there was a chaplain at the hospital when his mother was there, a volunteer from this church who’d come in to talk to the dying. He’d taken it upon himself to educate Peter on the realities of mortality and death, as if he hadn’t spent the past year experiencing it firsthand. He’d hated the idea of her being buried in the ground then and had said as much. It would have been far more fitting for her body to be launched into space.

He still believes that, though now that concept also makes him think of Yondu’s funeral.

“Peter?” Gamora prompts gently.

He shakes himself, knowing that he needs to be strong and make a decision for all of them, or he risks missing out on this opportunity to do what he should have done years ago. He can do this. He can do anything for his mom.

“Yeah,” he says, with more confidence than he feels. “Let’s go.”

Somehow he manages to open the car door and stumble out, keeping hold of the flowers and Gamora’s hand as she slides out gracefully after him. His grandpa is already out and facing them by the time Gamora shuts the door. His hands are shoved in his pockets, then they’re not, and he’s rubbing his face, fidgeting. If Peter’s hands weren’t both occupied he’d be doing the same. 

They stand there for a few seconds in silence before George turns, gesturing to the graveyard. “She...She’s this way,” he says, and slowly starts walking. 

“Are you ready?” Gamora whispers. 

He nods, even though he’s not sure that he is, and they follow George off of the gravel of the parking lot and into the grass and dirt of the graveyard. 

There’s a thin path they’re walking on that doesn’t seem to have been made on purpose, but rather worn into the ground by decades of people walking this same way. There’s rows and rows of tombstones on either side of them, all of them old and weatherbeaten. He can’t make out the dates on all of them, but the ones he can all start with ‘18--.’ The farther back they go, the more recent the dates get. 

“There's so many,” says Peter, the words slipping out before he's realized he's said them out loud. It's a nonsensical statement, of course. It isn't like he doesn't know that people die everywhere, every day. Still, that's part of why it's taken so long for him to come back here, isn't it? His hometown's only been filled with the living people in his memory for the past thirty years. It's kind of a shock to discover how many dead ones are here too. 

His grandpa doesn't answer that in words, but Gamora squeezes his hand again, here to support him like always. 

They've reached a row about two thirds of the way back in the cemetery when George turns abruptly to walk down it. The headstones here are all dated in the 1980s, he notices, which makes his heart pound so fast it physically hurts. 

“You should see this first,” says George, stopping in front of a stone near the far end of the row. 

Peter does as he's told, looking at the thing without question. For a moment he's so surprised that he doesn't see anything besides his own name.

“Peter,” Gamora breathes, her grip tightening on his hand. He can feel her eyes on him, but his own are fixed on the tombstone in front of them. 

_In loving memory of Peter Jason Quill_  
Beloved son and grandson  
Forever missed 

“I’m right here,” he whispers to Gamora, sensing where her mind might have gone; she’d seen thousands of possible ways for him to die, after all. Seeing what appears to be a gravestone for him has got to be jarring. 

“Even after months of not being able to find you,” George says, staring almost absently at the stone, “I didn’t believe you were dead. Wouldn’t believe it. But other people…people in the community, people who knew your mom...they told me I oughta get this for you. It’s only right, they said. So even if you didn’t get a proper burial, there...there’d be somethin’ here.” 

“Oh.” Peter swallows, feeling all kinds of awful. It’s not like he didn’t know this before, or like he hadn’t thought about it after seeing his grandpa again, but now he’s starting to really get what George must have gone through while he was “missing.” His daughter dead, his grandson gone and everyone telling him he’s dead too. Suddenly his grandpa refusing to believe that he was dead seems a little less like faith and a little more like a desperate attempt to hold onto something, _anything_ , he loved. 

It’s also, he realizes, not unlike his own refusal to return to Earth sooner. Not _exactly_ the same, of course. But there’s a finality in this stone that’s hard to bear, just like seeing his mom’s room with everything put away, without her in it. He’s spent the last thirty years viewing his grandpa as cold and maybe also kind of cowardly. Now he’s pretty sure that the man is actually stronger than _he’s_ ever been.

“I’m sorry,” Peter breathes, his cheeks suddenly wet. He swipes roughly at his eyes, feeling like he doesn’t deserve to be the one crying right now. “I’m sorry, I didn’t know. I didn’t think--”

“What are you sorry for?” asks George, his voice gravelly too. “It’s not like you chose to get abducted by aliens.”

“No.” Peter swallows, then clears his throat. “No, but I did choose not to come back sooner. I just--Mom was _gone._ I never wanted to be here without her.”

“Oh, Pete.” His grandfather shakes his head sadly. “If I had that choice, I’d take it in a heartbeat.”

“Really?” Peter asks, something in his chest lifting, lightening, but he’s hesitant to let himself feel it. Instead of being angry at him for staying away for so long, his grandpa is offering him the absolution he desperately wants but he’s not sure he deserves. 

George nods. “Hell yeah. I wish I didn’t have to know what this world is like without her. You’re better than I’d have been for coming back at all.” Then he reaches out and claps his hand on Peter’s shoulders, a motion that reminds him so strongly of Yondu he almost laughs. 

“Thanks,” he whispers instead. Gamora leans into his side, offering support. He’s not that surprised to see that there are tears swimming in her eyes too. 

“It’s true,” George says, squeezing his shoulder before letting go. He heaves a sigh, a heavy, weary sound. “Anyway, just--thought you should see this. It was a few months after your mom died, so I couldn’t get it right next to her grave, but it’s only a few down.” 

“Thanks,” says Peter, again. Then he clears his throat and aims at levity, mainly because there’s absolutely nothing left between him and the reality of his mother’s grave and he needs a few more seconds before facing it. “You know, kid-me did think it would be really badass to show up at my own funeral. I guess this is kinda--kinda similar.” He sniffs, which somewhat ruins the attempt at humor.

“It counts,” Gamora says charitably, and George nods.

“Kid-me never wanted to hurt anyone with it, though,” he sighs. Everything had seemed simpler then. Well, no. That isn’t true. But _some_ things had. He takes a deep breath. “Okay. Where’s--where’s Mom?”

It only takes a few paces to get to her grave, George indicating which one it is with a somber nod. Peter swallows, feeling like he might actually collapse into a puddle if it weren’t for Gamora beside him, her hand in his.

The headstone is relatively plain, a similar shape to his own ironic memorial. It has his mother’s name at the top, then the dates that frame the beginning and end of her life. The inscription reads _beloved daughter and mother_. And then, down at the bottom, another line: _for you, the sun will be shining._

Peter gasps, the words striking a cord deep within him, like he’s been briefly transported thirty years into the past. He hears the words in his mother’s voice, feels her next to him as he lies in her hospital bed with her after treatment; he sees her smile, weak but there as she sings the song like a lullaby. 

“What is it?” Gamora asks quietly. 

Peter’s having difficulty forming words, but thankfully George steps in. 

“It’s a song lyric. It’s what she wanted on there. I didn’t understand at the time, why she’d want that…” Peter feels his hand on his shoulder again. “But I think she was thinking of you.”

“It’s Fleetwood Mac,” Peter finally says, scarcely a whisper. “She sang it a lot, towards--the end. God, how does it go?” He can hear his mom singing the words in his head, but the memory is fuzzy and he’s struggling to pick up the tune. “ _For you--_ , no, that’s not it.” 

“It’s okay,” Gamora assures him, rubbing his arm soothingly. “We’ll find the song--”

“ _And I feel that when I’m with you, it’s all right_.” 

Peter snaps his head up to look at his grandpa. He’s staring at the headstone, a couple tears rolling down his cheeks, but he sings the lyrics in tune. “ _I know it’s right._ ” 

The rest of the song comes back in a rush, a mix of grief and love and gratitude roiling in the pit of his stomach. He sinks to his knees, the dew left from earlier in the morning soaking into his pants, though he hardly notices.

“ _And the songbirds are singing, like they know the score,_ ” he sings, though his voice is shaky and keeps cracking. “ _And I love you, I love you, I love you, like never before._ ”

There are tears streaming down his cheeks by the time he finishes, his voice wobbling so badly that the tune is unrecognizable. He knows his mother would have liked it anyway, though. Would have appreciated that he at last got her final message. He wonders for a moment whether she’s up there somewhere in the stars, looking down on him. 

“Hi, Mom,” he says finally, needing to say the words though he’s still not entirely sure what he believes about their purpose. “I miss you. I’m--sorry I didn’t come and visit sooner.” 

At this angle, he finally notices the bouquet of old flowers laid on the ground in front of the tombstone, presumably the ones his grandpa had brought on his last weekly visit. He moves those carefully to the side so he can set the new ones down in their place. 

Then he reaches out with trembling fingers to trace over the letters of her name. “You wouldn’t believe where I’ve been,” he says, then smiles. “Actually, you would. You definitely would.” 

Gamora, sensing when he needs her like always, sinks down next to him, arm around his back, head against his shoulder. 

“This is my wife,” he tells the stone in front of them. “God, I wish you could meet her. You would love her.” 

With a couple tears chasing each other down her cheeks, Gamora reaches out to touch the stone too. Her fingertips just barely brush it, as if she’s afraid of causing it harm. 

“Hello, Meredith,” she says softly. “I’m Gamora. I wish I could have met you, too. Your son has grown into a wonderful man. The best I’ve ever known. You would be _so_ proud of him.” 

“The best?” Peter asks in a small voice, sniffling. He knows, he _knows_ that she believes it, but he’s feeling so damn vulnerable right now that he needs to hear it out loud. “Really?”

“He saved the galaxy,” says Gamora, not answering him directly, but saying exactly what he needs to hear all the same. “More than once. He is--always _so_ willing to sacrifice for the good of others. Sometimes even more than I would like. Before I met him, my life was dark and empty, and I didn’t know there was anything else. He showed me love, and music, and dancing, and I know that he learned those things from you. So--thank you for that.”

Peter chokes on a sob, but he doesn’t want her to stop, sensing that she needs to say the words just as much as he needs to hear them. 

“My mother is--gone--too,” she breathes, her fingers still tracing the stone reverently. “I hope you and she are in a peaceful place together. I want to believe that you are.”

Peter just nods, utterly incapable of speech at this point. 

“I hope you are happy,” Gamora continues. “And that you know how much your son loves you. And how much he is loved.” 

George, who’d been standing slightly behind them during all this, kneels slowly on Peter’s other side and wraps an arm around his shoulders too, so he and Gamora are both half-hugging him. 

“He really is a great man, Mer,” he says, tears apparent in his voice. “You did a damn good job there.”

Completely overcome, Peter gently grips the top of the tombstone with both hands and bows his head forward, resting it on his outstretched arms, now sobbing openly. Something inside him feels heavier and lighter at the same time; like his mother’s loss is fresh, and at the same time like he hasn’t been this close to her in thirty years -- in more ways than just physical proximity to her body, separated from him by a few feet of dirt. 

“I miss you,” he manages to gasp out, before the wracking sobs once again steal his words. 

Gamora and his grandpa don’t seem to have any more words either. Silently, she stops tracing the letters on the tombstone and rests her hand on it next to his. George does the same on his other side. Gamora leans her head against his and hums Fleetwood Mac, slightly out of tune. Somewhere overhead, a few birds fly past the sun, casting shadows that move across the graveyard and disappear somewhere beyond.


	30. Chapter 30

He’d wanted to wait for Gamora to start listening to the mix in they’d found his mom’s Walkman, he really had. Well, sort of, he supposes; he’d never actually expected to be in a situation where he’d have to wait for her, seeing as they haven’t been parted for more than a few minutes in the past couple weeks. 

They’re still not parted now, really. She’s mere feet away from him, lying curled up on the guest bed while he sits on the floor leaning against it. But as she’s asleep, and he knows she’s been allowing herself very little of that lately, he decides not to disturb her for this. 

Emotionally exhausted after visiting his mother’s grave, they’d come up here for a nap, but Peter hadn’t been able to fall asleep. So he’d gently extricated himself from her arms, reluctant though he was to leave their warmth, and situated himself on the floor with a box full of some of his new most prized possessions. 

Though they might be more accurately called his _old_ prized possessions. 

While his grandpa had made it very clear that he could keep anything he wanted from his and his mother’s old rooms, Peter hadn’t felt right taking more than a couple of things. On top of the box is the picture of him and his mother with the ice cream cones, with a few of the postcards and the Mickey Mouse ears underneath. There’s a part of him that feels a little selfish about taking those things, but his grandpa had pointed out that they _were_ souvenirs from his special trip.

Next is a stack of baseball cards his grandpa had excitedly dug out of a drawer and given to him. He doesn’t recognize anyone on them, if he’s honest. Not just because it’s been thirty years, but also because he’d barely cared when they were new and current. He’s always been more into space than sports, but it was one of the few things his grandpa used to give him as semi-regular gifts. He’d tried his best to care at the time, but it had seemed like just one more sign that they had nothing in common. 

Now it’s a sign that his grandpa had tried, though, and that even if they didn’t connect back then, he’d loved him. Still does. 

Most of the other things in the box are assorted toys from his old room, including a few Star Wars figurines and an Etch A Sketch, which he takes out and enthusiastically draws a crude penis, nearly giggling out loud. 

He shakes that image away before moving onto what is easily the best thing in this box: his mom’s Walkman, and the tape therein. The tape is wound to the beginning, it’s got new batteries in it; now all it needs is for him to press play. 

Well, and put the headphones on. He sheds a few tears when he slips them over his head; it’s a feeling he hadn’t realized how much he’d missed until he puts them on again. Music may come through with more clarity from the Zune, or when Knight Rider plays it, but this has always been his favorite way to listen. 

The headphones are on their smallest size, clearly still adjusted from the last time his mother used them. They don’t fit all the way down to his ears, but he leaves them that way for a moment, imagining his mother again, the way she used to lean her head close to his so that he could hear the music even while she had them on. Finally, carefully, he stretches them out so that they fit him correctly. The foam on the ear pieces is old and dry, but that’s okay. He’s had plenty of experience fixing that.

His fingers shake a bit as he finally presses play and watches the tape start to spin. At first he hears nothing, though, and he frowns. He has a moment of panic, thinking the Walkman might not work after all before he remembers the volume wheel. He thumbs it quickly, a fresh wave of tears starting immediately when he hears the familiar lyrics.

_Let my love open the door_  
Let my love open the door  
To your heart 

He’s got no specific memory associated with this song, but he knows that he and his mom listened to it enough times for the words to come back to him after hearing just one chorus. He completely loses himself in the song, his surroundings melting away as he sings along without conscious thought.

“ _When everything feels all over  
Everybody seems unkind  
I’ll give you a four-leaf clover  
Take all worry out of your mind._”

He’s full-on jamming out, using his hands to tap out the rhythm against his knees, bobbing his head, singing along, when he suddenly hears, “Peter?” from behind him. 

“Fuck,” he breathes, sliding the headphones off and whipping around to see that he’s woken Gamora. Guilt surges through him and he’s halfway to forming an apology when he really takes her in. 

She’s sleep-disheveled, adorably so. Her hair is a little tangled, she’s sitting up, the blankets tangled around her legs. But that’s not what grabs his attention. No, what’s really concerning him is the way she’s looking down at herself, mouth slightly open, breath coming faster than usual.

Peter flies into panic mode. “What’s wrong?” he asks. He sets the Walkman down in the box and stands up, nearly tripping over himself in his hurry. “What is it? Are you okay?”

She doesn’t answer directly, just repeats his name on a whisper and finally looks up at him. It’s then that he realizes she doesn’t look worried; she looks amazed. 

“What is it?” he repeats, moving around to stand by her side of the bed. He’s trying to stay calm, to move more deliberately since it seems pretty clear that he ought not to be panicking right now and he doesn’t want her to change her mind about sharing whatever it is. Still, his heart is pounding so fast and loud that he can barely hear himself think, his mouth so dry he can hardly speak.

“Look,” she breathes, barely audible, and it’s then that he finally takes in the rest of her body. Her shirt’s tugged up by the position she’s slept in, exposing her abdomen in a way that she’s been avoiding for the past couple weeks. She’s allowed it to stay that way now, though, and his heart nearly stops beating altogether as he sees why. There’s a faint blush of silver there, weak but undeniable.

“Oh god,” he exhales in a rush, then chokes on a sob as he reaches out instinctively, hardly daring to believe it as the color deepens under his fingertips.

“I was dreaming,” says Gamora, watching his hand raptly, “about your mother.”

“Yeah?” he asks, focus split between her words and her skin as his fingers dance over her abdomen, feeling the added warmth there. 

She nods. “We were here--on the farm. All three of us were by that tree. I got to meet her.” 

“Did she love you?” 

“I believe so,” Gamora says. He glances up to see her smiling at him, that same amazement she’d been staring at her silver with directed at him. “It was a short dream. I mostly remember that she gave you the Walkman. You pressed play, and then… I woke up and you were singing, and I felt it--” 

She breaks off on a gasping sob, a sound of pure, overwhelming joy. He feels it too, his hands are shaking with it, his cheeks ache from smiling and wet from tears. 

“How?” he breathes. He’s got his whole hand pressed against her abdomen now but he’s focused on her face. “ _How?_ Did the dream do it? Did Nebula do something?”

“I don’t know,” Gamora says, her smile still wide, not seeming at all bothered about the _how_. “But it’s back. I’m silver. He didn’t take it from me after all.” 

“No,” says Peter, though of course he’s doubted and worried and feared as much as she has if not more. But he also knows that Gamora--that his _wife_ \--is categorically the strongest woman in the galaxy, not just in her fighting but in her love and warmth as well. “No, baby, of course he didn’t. He couldn’t. That’s ours.”

“I thought--I thought that--” She breaks off, the words catching as her voice breaks on a sob. There are tears streaming down her cheeks now too, but she looks so, so different than the image from Knowhere that’s been haunting him. Still, he realizes a moment later that there is some distress in her expression as she shakes her head again. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry I thought it was lost.”

“Shhh,” Peter soothes, sinking to his knees by the side of the bed so that he can use his free hand to brush the hair off her forehead, palm rested against her brow. The fact that he last knelt at his mother’s grave isn’t lost on him, but it feels somehow oddly appropriate, a connection between the two most important women in his life.

“It’s okay, it’s all right,” he continues. “Don’t be sorry.”

She shakes her head just slightly, so his hand stays in place. “I made you worry so much--”

“It’s not your fault at all,” he assures her. He slips his hand from her abdomen to rub her side soothingly. “You’ve been through so much, Mora. You’ve lost so much in your life. I’m not surprised you thought you’d lose this too. But you didn’t! You’ve got it! You get to keep this.”

Her lower lip wobbles while she just stares at him for a few seconds, until her face breaks into a grin again and a sob tears its way out of her throat. In the blink of an eye, she’s sinking down from the bed, her arms thrown around his neck and she’s kissing him hard. 

“Mph!” He makes a muffled noise of surprise but immediately wraps his arms around her. He holds her to him tightly and sits back on his heels to support them as she practically scrambles into his lap. 

It’s difficult to kiss when they’re both smiling and laughing and crying at the same time, but they’re giving it their best shot. He runs his hands up her back under her shirt, all hesitation of the past two weeks melted away as he suddenly needs to touch as much of her as possible. Then he brings one hand back around to sit against her abdomen again, feeling the heat that he knows is the silver continuing to spread and deepen. He kisses her with renewed vigor, though he’s gasping for breath, having to pull away for air every few seconds even as she chases his mouth with her own.

“Wait, wait,” Peter mumbles against her lips, the absolute giddiness of this situation running away from him as he glances down and realizes that there are several especially bright spots in her silver now, corresponding directly to where his fingertips have been resting against her skin.

Gamora breaks the kiss to look up at him in question, one eyebrow quirked. That expression is _almost_ enough to make him kiss her again immediately, but he does have _some_ self-control. Like, thirty seconds worth, probably. 

“Lean back,” he says, gently adjusting her shoulders until she’s at the angle that he wants. 

He giggles helplessly as he hikes her shirt up higher and draws a crude heart in the silver, finishing with their initials the same as on the tree. 

“Peter!” she laughs, all affection and amusement. 

“What?” he asks innocently. He’d done this their first time together too, when she’d first shown him the silver glow, explained to him what it meant. When the silver is relatively faint like this, as opposed to the much deeper color it will gain later as she gets more and more aroused, touch can leave marks on it. They don’t last -- these ones are already fading -- but he’d taken many opportunities to draw on it in the past. 

Gamora shakes her head and leans up again. “I love you,” she says, before kissing him hard enough to leave him dizzy. 

Damn, but he loves kissing her. He’d spend the rest of his life just kissing her if he could get over this whole needing to breathe thing. 

As it is, he’s got to pull away panting after a moment, and Gamora takes it in stride.

“You’re wearing too many clothes,” she informs him, playing with the hem of his shirt. 

“Oh?” he says with interest. “Maybe there’s something to be done about that.”

“Maybe.” She smirks and makes quick work of his shirt, barely giving him time to lift his arm before she’s got it off and thrown onto the floor, none of her usual regard for neatness. 

“Oh no,” says Peter, mugging it up with the sole hope of making her laugh. “Where’d my shirt go?” He tears his eyes away from her for a moment to glance over his shoulder. Then he looks back, feigning shock. “You’re so hot, it flew right off.”

“Peter,” she sighs, shaking her head. Her fingers are toying with the waistband of his jeans now, and he can’t help squirming a bit.

“My pants would fly off too,” he says, rocking his hips a little. “But you’re sitting on them.”

“I am,” says Gamora, shifting against him too. She runs a hand through his hair, then down along the side of his jaw, his neck, his collarbone. He drops his gaze as her hand comes into view, watching her fingers trace a line down his chest until it reaches his abdomen.

He groans softly, his mouth falling open as his breath starts to come faster.

“What was that?” she asks, her smile turning wicked. She presses against his skin just hard enough to blanch the color, drawing her own version of the heart.

“I love you, too,” he breathes, touched and beyond turned on by the simple action. He has to kiss her again and she responds eagerly, at the same time continuing her hand’s journey down his body, deftly undoing the button on his pants so she can play with with hair there, driving him crazy. 

“You know,” he pants when they pull apart just slightly, “we’re a little uneven here.” He tugs gently on the back of her shirt, then slips his hand under it again to trace along her spine. 

She shivers and smirks. “That sounds like I’m winning.” 

“Oh yeah?” he murmurs. He draws a swirly pattern on her back, enjoying that shiver. “How do you figure that?”

“Because I’ve gotten more clothes off of you,” she says simply, going in for another kiss. He’s always loved kissing her, but he feels the need even stronger than usual right now, like having his lips separated from her is an agony he can’t bear for long. It seems Gamora is feeling about the same. 

“I don’t know,” he says, in the next break between short, sweet kisses. “What if the competition is who has the least amount of clothes on?”

“It isn’t,” says Gamora, slipping her thumb beneath the elastic on his boxers to run over his hip bone.

That draws another soft, needy sound from the back of his throat, but he knows she’s trying to distract him. “Says who?”

“Me,” she says sweetly, her other hand running down his back, then over his ass, so he’s trapped between one tease of hers and another. Just where she likes him, and just where he wants to be.

“Why’s that?” he asks, rolling his head to the side, an invitation. 

She eyes him with a predatory gaze before leaning in again, kissing the hollow between his neck and shoulder. She lingers there for several breaths, her lips warm and soft. Then, abruptly, she moves up to suck on _that_ spot just behind his ear.

Peter cries out, a full-body shudder running through him, despite the fact that he _knew_ exactly what she was about to do.

“Because,” she whispers against his ear. “This is _definitely_ a competition I am winning.”

“Good-- _ah_ \--good point,” he pants, moaning when she nibbles on his earlobe. 

For a while he’s utterly robbed of speech, lost in the bliss of the way she’s touching him; her lips on his neck, the blunt part of her nails lightly scratching a line down his happy trail. Finally, though, he remembers how to form words. “I wanna touch you too.”

He can feel her smirk against his neck. “You are touching me.” 

Which is true. He’s still got his hand up the back of her shirt, stroking at times, clutching her shoulder with need at others. But still.

“You know what I mean,” he whines. “I wanna touch you _more_. Please.” 

Her fingers pause their teasing and she pulls her lips away so she can look at him, eyes dark, lips slightly parted in a smirk. The look she’s giving him makes him shiver. She loves it when he begs. He loves it when she _makes_ him beg. 

“How bad?” she asks, voice low and husky. 

“Really bad,” he says immediately, squirming. “I really wanna touch you, please.” 

He wonders for a moment how far she’s going to take this, and if either of them are ready for that particular game right now. But she doesn’t make him wait any longer. She squeezes the top of his ass one more time, making him jump and giggle, before taking her hands away and yanking her shirt off. 

Peter gasps at the sight of her, stunning as always. His eyes are drawn automatically to the newly restored silver. It’s already more intense, his drawing erased by the deepening flush. But it’s not just her body that steals his breath and makes his throat grow tight, it’s also the confidence with which she’s offering herself to him now, all traces of doubt apparently melted away. Still, he wants her to be nothing but comfortable and confident. He doesn’t want to do anything to ruin that, especially when it’s so hard-won.

“Wait,” he breathes, forcing himself to lean back again, dropping his hands to his side so that he can think straight as he meets her eyes. Well, half-straight anyway. It’s impossible to be _completely_ focused when she’s right there, half-naked.

She blinks, clearly surprised by his reaction. She doesn’t look upset, though, quickly readjusts to match his posture. “Yeah? You okay?”

He nods quickly. “I’m fine, I’m fine. I just--I think--We need to talk about this, don’t we?”

“Oh,” she says, shaking her head a little ruefully. “Yes, of course. I’m sorry, I got carried away.” 

“God, no,” he breathes, touching her cheek, which may be a mistake for his self control; when he touches her, he can’t help but lean forward again and kiss her. He manages to keep it short, though, because they really do need to talk. 

“Nothing to be sorry for,” he continues, resting his forehead against hers. “We both got a little carried away. We’re half-naked on the floor when there’s a bed right next to us.” 

She smirks — which is truly adorable, no matter what she says to the contrary. “It’s not like it’s the first time.” 

“We are out of control,” he says, squirming as he recalls some of the times they’ve been too impatient to make it all the way to the bed. Those memories are not making it easier to concentrate. “But maybe for this time--bed.” 

“Bed,” she agrees, and moves like she’s going to get off of him so they can actually accomplish that. But he can’t resist; he lets himself touch her again so he can wrap his arms around her and lift her up as he stands too. 

“Peter,” she laughs, burying her face in his neck and running her nails over his back.

He shudders and moans helplessly, letting momentum carry them over to the bed despite the fact that his brain really isn't functioning at the moment. He lays Gamora down carefully, taking her in for a long moment. Then he crawls over her body, pausing with his lips against her abdomen, overwhelmed by sheer reverence as he takes in the heat of her silver. 

“Peter,” she repeats, running her fingers through his hair, which does absolutely nothing for his concentration. 

“Mm?” he mumbles, glancing up, chin still balanced on her hip. 

“You wanted to talk,” she reminds him. 

“Right, right,” he sighs, finally rolling off of her. 

“So, talking?” she prompts. 

He nods and clears his throat. “Yeah. So um...I wanna--have sex with you.”

“Well that is convenient,” says Gamora. “So do I.”

“Yeah?” he breathes, shifting to rest his elbow on the bed so he can see her better. His head is still level with her abdomen, and he can’t help but use his other hand to trace patterns onto the silver. Even though it’s deepened too much to leave marks anymore, he can still feel its warmth, and see the way it contrasts against his skin. 

“Could you not tell?” she asks, watching the progress of his fingers. 

“No, I—yes,” he says, chuckling at his own distraction. He makes himself still his hand, but keeps it resting on her skin. “It’s just, before, you know...we were gonna take it slow.” 

Her hand wanders too, down from his hair to the back of his neck, massaging just the way he likes. “I think we’ve taken it slow enough,” she says, then adds, “Unless of course you don’t.” 

“No!” he says quickly, though it's hard to keep track of how words work with her hand doing that. “No, I mean--not slow. Well, not _too_ slow.” He clears his throat. “I mean, I want it to last long enough to be fun.”

He feels his cheeks flush all the way down to his chest. To be fair, it's been a _while_ since he's had a--quickness problem, but sometimes Gamora is just _so_ amazing and so good at teasing him, pushing him beyond his limit. It's still a little embarrassing to think of that outside the heat of the moment, though he knows how much she enjoys it when he loses control like that. 

“Baby,” she says gently, touching his cheek, her gaze full of affection and tenderness. “We are both going to enjoy this. A lot. I promise.”

“Good,” says Peter, swallowing. “That's good.” It's surreal, in a lot of ways, having so many good things all at once, after so many awful ones. But definitely good. 

“Are you okay?” Gamora asks, but he’s pretty sure from the look on her face that she knows what he’s feeling, and thinking. 

“Yes,” he assures her anyway. He smiles up at her, his gorgeous, half-naked wife who’s just told him she wants to have sex with him, and realizes that now that they’ve decided this is definitely going to happen, he doesn’t have to refrain from touching her any longer -- not that he was doing a great job of that to begin with. “God, yes. More than okay.” 

He moves his hand off her abdomen to replace it with his lips again, kissing all over and around her silver skin. He’d gladly spend hours worshipping her like this, but Gamora seems to have other ideas. 

“Good,” she says. Then her hand, back in his hair, tightens and tugs up with just the perfect amount of force to make him groan. “Now, get up here.” 

“Fuck, babe,” he breathes, gaping at her for a second before scrambling to obey. He makes sure to press quick kisses everywhere he can as he makes his way up her body, his lips making a trail along her stomach, between her breasts, to the hollow of her throat, before capturing her own. 

She groans into the kiss, arching up off the bed toward him, though she doesn’t quite make contact between their bodies. Instead she runs her fingers through his hair again, quickly finding the sensitive spot at the back of his neck. She swipes her nail against his scalp, which makes his hips jump.

He retaliates by reaching down and finding her breast, holding her gaze all the way. He takes his time, enjoying the softness of her skin under the pad of his thumb, the way her nipple hardens under his palm as he cups it. She makes an appreciative sound in response but she’s still mainly focused on him, snaking her hand down to toy with the open button on his pants again.

He shivers, goosebumps erupting over his hands and legs. “Are you--Are you gonna take those off or just play with them?”

“I do love to play with you,” she purrs. His zipper is still done, and she runs the tip of her finger up and down along it a couple times. 

His head drops to her shoulder, mouth hanging up as he struggles not to thrust into her touch. “ _Fuck,_ babe. I know you do.” 

She hums, a teasing little lilt to her smile, but finally, _slowly_ , unzips his pants. “I love having you naked too, though.” 

“Do you?” he says, trying to sound smug, though it comes out strained, as she’s now running her finger along him over his underwear. “Maybe you should-- _ah_ \--do something about that.” 

“Maybe I should,” she says, as if that’s a mildly intriguing thought she hadn’t considered before. Her other hand snakes down the back of his pants to once again grip his ass, this time more fully, and now he can’t help it -- he thrusts forward into her hand with a pathetic moan. 

“Gamora,” he whines, because he _knows_ that she knows what she’s doing, is definitely enjoying it every bit as much as she always does. It’s not like he’s ever anything but a desperate, pliable, grateful mess around her but right now all of the sensations are heightened. Because of where they are, probably. And the emotions of the day. _And_ the fact that it’s _basically_ been two weeks of no sex which is definitely, like, a new record for them.

“Problem?” she asks, her tone all innocent sweetness. She traces the line and swell of his dick with a fingertip again, and he’s definitely not having any problems getting hard anymore, erection already straining uncomfortably against the fabric of his underwear.

“I thought--” he grits, biting back a cry as she pauses to circle the head of his dick, finding the most sensitive spot and focusing all of her attention there, “--that I was gonna get naked.”

“I said maybe,” she points out, but she does take her hands away, which makes him whine in protest even though she does what he’d wanted and starts slowly inching his pants down. “Want something?”

He shakes his head, sighing in relief when she grabs his underwear with his pants and pushes them both past his hips. “Just you.” 

He helps her out when his pants get too far down to reach, kicking them the rest of the way off. Then he’s leaning over her completely naked, and she’s half naked looking up at him, her hands now stroking up and down his sides, and it hits him how quickly this is happening. Not that he doesn’t want it to, far from it; he’s so, so aroused right now that he feels like he could explode. But she was basically _dead_ a few weeks ago, and now she’s here, half-naked and warm and silver underneath him. 

His life has been one made up of losses for as long as he can remember -- his mother, his homeworld, _Gamora._ He’s come to expect that, if not ever accept it. He’s grown up a master of escapism, of finding stolen joy in the small things, while knowing that it will be taken from him eventually.

He isn’t accustomed to getting things back. And now here he is with so many precious things restored all at once. It’s wonderful and surreal and terrifying all at once.

Taking another breath that catches in his throat, Peter buries his face in her neck again. He lingers there for a long moment before kissing a line down her shoulder, her chest, pausing over the place where he can feel her heart beating.

Gamora apparently feels the shift in him, because she cards her fingers into his hair in a way that’s soothing rather than teasing. “Are you okay?” she asks softly. 

“Yeah, of course,” he says automatically. His voice is hoarse though, utterly unconvincing, even if he didn’t have his eyes closed and forehead pressed against her chest over her heart. 

“Peter,” she chides. “Please don’t hide from me.” 

He sighs but nods. She’s right, of course; as much as he’d love this to go perfectly smoothly, the last thing he wants is to let this simmer and bubble up and turn into something like that first attempt after she came back. 

“I won’t,” he says, lifting his head slowly. There’s already tears in his eyes, which seems to come as no surprise to her. “I just--can’t believe we’re here. All of this… It seems too good to be true.” 

She smiles, so gently and lovingly that he could break down just from that. “I know what you mean,” she says. She swipes her thumb across his cheek to capture a tear. “Not too long ago I thought I’d never have this again.” 

“You were--I lost you,” he whispers, voicing the real thought that’s getting stuck in his throat, causing him to choke. He turns his head, kissing the pad of her thumb very tenderly. “I _lost_ you.”

“I was in hell,” she breathes, her own voice growing hoarse with emotion. “I was in hell and you saved me.”

“Of course I did,” Peter says vehemently, reaching down to trace the curve of her cheekbone, the tears welling in her eyes not lost on him either. “I love you. I was always gonna take care of you.”

“I--well, I did mean in the Stone,” says Gamora, pausing to take a shaky breath. She turns her face in toward his palm and kisses it, a reflection of the gesture he made only moments before. “But I meant _before_ too. You saved me, Peter, and you didn’t even know me.”

“You mean....in the Kyln?” he asks, his rising emotions and arousal making it difficult to parse her meaning. It’s difficult for him to think very coherently whenever she’s in any state of undress, but particularly now, when he seems to be feeling the full spectrum of emotions all at once. 

She nods, then shakes her head, her cheeks wet now. “In the Kyln, on Knowhere, yes, but… From the moment Thanos took me from my planet, I was living in hell. I didn’t think I’d ever have love again; I forgot what it felt like. Then there was you.” 

“Mora,” he breathes. As if he wasn’t overwhelmed enough already. 

The way she’s looking at him, the reverence in her voice… She’s looked at him this way before, she’s expressed similar sentiments before -- in her wedding vows, even -- but it amazes him every time that someone as incredible as Gamora could think this much of him. 

“I love you,” he whispers, needing to say that words both to finish fully reclaiming them and because they’re the only way he can think of to adequately express the way he’s feeling right now. “More than anything.”

She smiles up at him tenderly, stroking his cheek. 

Then she surges up off the bed in one fluid motion, strong and graceful and so enthusiastic that he nearly falls over backward when she kisses him. She laughs against his lips, steadying him with a hand at his back. Steadying them both, because that’s who she is.

“I know,” says Gamora, grinning again when she pulls back, her lips still only inches from his.

Peter gapes at her for a moment as he identifies the unmistakable smugness he sees in that expression. “Gamora! Did you just Solo me? Intentionally?”

She shrugs innocently. “Perhaps. But it’s also true. I do know that you love me more than anything, as I do you. I wouldn’t have married you were it any other way.”

“We _are_ married, aren’t we?” he says, delighted at the reminder. It’s not like he’s forgotten; he thinks about it roughly three times a minute. But to hear her say it is something else. 

“We are,” she agees. She’s smiling impishly down at him from where she’s leaning over him slightly, balancing on her hip and her elbow. Her foot is dragging slowly up and down his leg, making him shiver. 

“And we never really did get our wedding night, did we?” he says a little breathlessly. 

“No, we didn’t.” She’s got her hand on his side, and it strays lower toward his hip. Despite the teasing nature of her words, she looks and sounds far more genuinely happy and eager than teasing when she says, “Would you like to do something about that?” 

“Are you gonna make me beg?” He grins and leans forward to kiss her jaw, more than prepared to do so. 

She hums, and when he pulls back her eyes have darkened. She shakes her head though. “Not right now.” Then she leans forward and kisses him so deeply and suddenly that she’s got to wrap her leg around his hips to keep him from falling backward this time. 

Peter groans into the kiss again, grabbing onto her shoulder and allowing her to support him. Her body is strong and warm under his hand, and where she’s touching him, practically radiating love and desire. This time he doesn’t think of anything else, anything in the past. He just focuses on kissing her, on putting as much of his own love and absolute devotion into it as he possibly can.

They’re both panting when they pull apart, but he grins through it. “Too bad there’s no bed posts here, right?” He waggles his eyebrows, though he’s not really _wanting_ to be tied up right now, especially if it’s not her preference. He just can’t resist the joke.

Gamora rolls her eyes. “I said I am not going to make you beg right now. A wedding night should be about equality, should it not?”

“Yes,” he says, because that sounds right and smart and Gamora said it. And this, really, is what he wants: just her and him. “Totally.” 

He leans in to kiss her again while his hand strays from her shoulder, down her back, to play with the top edge of her pants. He doesn’t have the breath for the long, deep kisses he wants right now, so they exchange quick, sweet, almost frantic kisses between words when he says, “You know--in the interest--of equality--you should probably--take these off.” 

“Hmm.” She hums against his lips before tearing hers away to start kissing across his cheek and along his jawline. “You have a good point.” 

He opens his mouth, but then she nips at his earlobe and the only response he can manage is a moan. She makes it even worse when she goes for the spot behind his ear, letting her teeth scrape against it. “ _Babe_ ,” he pants, squirming against her where they’re pressed together. 

“Did you want something?” she asks innocently.

“You,” says Peter. “You _know_ I want you. And I thought you weren’t gonna make me beg.” It’s more of a tease than a complaint; he knows her love of making him beg is part of her competitive streak. Which, really, is fortunate for him. That’s a competition he’s _always_ happy to lose.

“Fair point,” she says. “So...I know that you have had fantasies about being married. About our married names. And about our wedding. You had a song chosen for our first dance.”

“Yeah,” he says, flushing again. “You um...you find those things sexy?”

“Yes,” she allows, touching his cheek again. “But I was actually wondering if you had fantasized about this. Our wedding night. Or--wedding….late evening, I suppose.”

“Oh!” he says, his blush deepening. But really, it’s not like she doesn’t know how much he fantasizes about her. “Yeah. Might’ve thought about it a time or two.”

She smirks, but her tone is serious. “How did you picture it? What did we do in your fantasies?” 

“Oh,” he repeats, because he finally sees where she’s going with this. A slow smile spreads over his face. “Well, it was usually romantic, you know. I’d carry you into the room -- usually our quarters on the Quadrant, but sometimes it was a really fancy hotel suite on a tropical planet somewhere.” 

“That sounds nice,” she says softly. She’s got her hand on his hip now; her fingers massaging the top of his ass are quite distracting, but he powers through. 

“Then I’d set you on the bed,” he says, letting his hand stray like hers, under the edge of her pants. “And there’d be flower petals scattered all over it, and candles lit.” 

“Oh,” she breathes, shifting under him a bit. If she were human, he thinks, she'd be getting goosebumps. “I do like flowers.”

“Really?” Peter teases. “I had no idea. Never would've guessed.”

She rolls her eyes. “I am sure it's only a coincidence that you fantasized about them, then.”

“Yep!” he says. “Serendipity!”

“I loved our wedding,” says Gamora. “But I will admit there's a small part of me that wishes I could have seen these things you'd planned.”

“Me too,” he says. He thinks for a moment, then throws his legs over the side of the bed and stands up. 

“Hey,” she protests. “What are you doing?”

He glances around the room, then grabs a faded old cloth that's currently covering the nightstand. He shakes it out then drapes it over the bed, pointing to the pattern of daisies on it. “There we go. Flowers!”

Gamora shakes her head. “Peter…”

He scoops her into his arms, grinning at her little surprised noise, and carries her to a spot just in front of the door. “Carrying you into the room, see? I mean, mostly. Might be kinda awkward if I did it for real right now.”

Her arms settle around his neck easily. “Yes, let’s not walk out naked into your grandfather’s house.” 

“In the fantasy, we usually start with clothes on,” he says, walking back to the bed and setting her down on her back. Her arms slip off of his neck and he pulls back a bit, breath coming quicker as he takes her in. She’s arching her back and smiling in that teasing way she has, her hair all spread out against the blanket underneath her, her abdomen a bright silver; absolutely gorgeous, as she always is. 

“I’ll get you the flower petals some other time,” he promises as he crawls over her. 

“I’ll look forward to it,” she says. She wraps her hands loosely around his upper arms, caressing his skin with her thumbs. “What happened next? In your fantasies.” 

“I look down at you,” says Peter, forcing himself to lean back for effect, though it makes it more difficult for her to touch him and that's absolutely tragic. “Like this. Admiring your dress, because I am a fool who fantasized about you wearing a big fancy gown and not a Princess Leia shirt.”

The corners of her lips twitch. “I am glad you appreciated that decision.”

“ _Duh,_ ” says Peter. 

She laughs. “So in your fantasy, what did you imagine my dress looked like?”

“Oh,” he says. “You had lots of different dresses. If I was feeling like a traditional Terran, it was white and lacy. But sometimes I thought black was more you. Or red. One time, it was made of silver glitter. But this one…” He pauses, looking her up and down. “This one's pink.”

The flush on her cheeks deepens slightly as he takes her in. “Pink?” 

He nods. “Matches your hair. And it’s got a low neckline, because you like to tease me.” He traces a triangle over her skin with his finger, starting from one side of her neck, down between her breasts, then up to the other side, enjoying the way it makes her shiver. 

“You seem to be the one doing the teasing right now,” she points out. 

“You’re the one who asked about my fantasy,” he says with a devious grin. “I’m just giving you the answer.” 

“I suppose I did,” she says, tone full of that fond exasperation that’s basically her trademark with him. “You should keep telling me about it, then.” 

He hums, then leans down to replace his finger with his lips, pressing tiny kisses along her neck. “I work your dress down, taking my time. I kiss every inch of your skin as I go.” 

She makes a soft, appreciative sound, curling her fingers into his hair again. She doesn't tug this time, letting him continue with his vision. It still feels awesome, though. Just not so awesome that he loses all ability to form rational thought. 

“Don't you need to undo my zipper?” she asks, rolling onto her side to expose her back. 

“Oh, right!” he says. “Thanks for reminding me!” He runs a finger in a slow line down her back as if doing that, then follows it with his lips. He slows down as he reaches the small of her back, running a palm over the curve of her ass over her pants. “You're wearing sexy lingerie, too, because you love to drive me crazy like that.”

“I do,” she confesses, wiggling her hips. “What sort of lingerie is it?”

He watches her ass as if hypnotized, groaning low in the back of his throat. “Uh… Different sort every time. Usually it matches the dress. Sometimes it’s that little black thing I love. Sometimes it’s a thong if you _really_ wanna torture me.” 

“I often do.” She turns around onto her back again, trapping his hand underneath her because he doesn’t want to let go of her ass yet. “I hope you’re not disappointed that I’m not wearing anything special.”

“Babe,” he says, kissing a reverent line across her chest. “Everything you wear is special. You drive me crazy no matter what you’re wearing.” His lips linger on the space between her breasts, not straying to one side or the other. “I especially like it when you’re wearing nothing.” 

“I am wearing my silver,” she points out, her tone changing in a way that makes his mouth go dry all over again. It's deeper now; warmer, husky. 

“Yes,” says Peter, pressing his lips to it again. “Yes, you are.”

He runs his free thumb over her hip bone, then extracts his other hand from under her, though he's definitely planning to give her ass a lot more love later. For now, he undoes the clasp on her pants, kissing the line of skin that reveals, and says, “Next I finish getting you naked.”

“Torturous lingerie and all?” she asks. 

He hums an affirmative, grabbing her underwear so he can pull it down at the same time as her pants. “Sometimes we leave it on a bit longer. But usually the dress and the underwear goes all at once.” He kisses his way down one leg as he pulls her pants down, then back up the other once they’re off, lingering on her inner thigh before making his way back up. 

“What about you?” she asks, tugging him the rest of the way up to steal a kiss. “What are you wearing?”

“I’m real fancy,” he mumbles, rapidly losing focus on the fantasy. “Got a nice suit on, with a tie and everything.” 

Gamora is being very distracting right now; he’s pressed against her practically all the way from chest to foot and she’s kissing him every break between words. Her hands are everywhere, it seems, running over his back, threading through his hair, gripping his ass. 

“Oh,” she says, her nails biting briefly against his ass, making him moan and inadvertently thrust up against her thigh, “we could do things with a tie.” 

“Fuck,” he breathes. He has to stiffen his thighs to keep from practically dry-humping her. “We totally could--later.” 

“Do we do things with it in your fantasy?” she asks, the heat in her gaze making him squirm despite his very best attempts at self-control. Not that he’s ever been great at it. 

“Uh....” He considers, because that’s not something that’s ever occurred to him before, ties being a somewhat unfamiliar article of clothing. Now _scarves_ , on the other hand...he _knows_ how fun those can be. “Well we do _now_.”

She laughs, and it’s still the most wonderful sound in the entire galaxy. “Fair enough. Though I will admit I am somewhat surprised that you are wearing a suit. You always say they’re not your style.”

“True.” He shrugs, “but I gotta look good for my girl. Though there’s totally, like, half a dozen versions where I’m dressed just like Han Solo.”

“I never would have guessed,” she deadpans, reaching up to trail her fingers through his chest hair. “Am I dressed like Princess Leia?”

 

“Of course,” he says, shivering at the light scratch of her nails against his chest. “Minus the hair buns. Most of the time.” 

“How do I have my hair then?” Her finger strays to brush over his nipple and he bites back a shout. She smirks and does it again. 

“Uh...curled or braided, usually,” he says, voice strained. Before she’s able to distract him completely, he ducks his head to kiss her neck, working his way slowly down her body again. “Don’t you wanna know what I do next in my fantasies?” 

He cups one of her breasts in his hand before his lips have made it down there, swiping his thumb over her nipple. 

“What-- _ah_ \--what do you do?” she asks, interrupted by a gasp. 

He kisses a teasing circle around her other breast, carefully avoiding the peak. “Take care of you.” 

“Take care of me or tease me?” she asks, her breath coming faster. 

“Take care of you,” he repeats, continuing to brush his thumb over one nipple while circling the other with kisses, knowing exactly what he’s doing. 

“You have an interesting definition of that,” says Gamora, arching her back for more contact.

“I’m very good at multitasking,” he says, finally taking her nipple in his mouth. 

She bites back a cry, which turns the sound into something like a grunt. “Fuck, yes. You are.”

He keeps his mouth on her breast for the moment, but lets his hand stray lower, snaking between them over the curves of her abdomen. He pauses over the silver yet again, drawing another invisible heart. Finally he continues lower, moving his hand between her legs and finding her clit with the ease of intimate familiarity. 

She curses and shifts her legs farther apart, tilting her hips up at the same time in an attempt to get closer to his hand. He keeps his touch light though, and the circles he’s making with his finger wide, stubbornly avoiding real contact. 

“Peter,” she says after a while of this, her tone not far removed from a whine. “Do you ever get on with it in your fantasies?” 

He’d laugh if he wasn’t too busy sucking on her nipple in a way that makes her toss her head back against the bedding and grip his shoulders. Sometimes he can spend hours touching her like this, but right now he’s already having trouble not rubbing himself against her leg or the mattress. So after she groans and thrusts her hips up again, he loosens his lips, making sure they still brush against her as he says, “Eventually.” 

“Tease,” she pants, then gasps when his fingers finally make contact with her clit again. 

“Yes I am,” Peter drawls, pleased with all the sounds he’s getting from her. “And you love me for it.”

“I love you in spite of it,” says Gamora, though there’s nothing serious about that in her tone. “You’re a lucky man, Peter Quill. The only one in the galaxy who can tease me and live to tell about it.”

He groans helplessly, painfully turned on by the truth in those words, and the subtle threat toward anyone who might try to come between them.

“I _know_ I’m a lucky man,” he says. 

Since he’s already let her nipple slip out of his mouth, he decides it is finally time to move on. He pauses only to suck a short-lived bruise onto her hip bone before finding his way between her legs again, replacing his fingers on her clit with his tongue.

Gamora opens her mouth to respond, gets out the word, “I--” before whatever she was going to say is replaced by a moan and a sharp curse. He can’t help but let out a moan himself, always turned on how responsive she is when he does this, the noises she makes and the little movements of her hips. 

He helps adjust her into a good position, spreading her legs more and hooking one of her thighs over his shoulder, touching her a little firmer with his tongue once they’ve settled. He keeps one hand on her thigh, stroking it, and lets the other wander up to cup her breast again. 

“Fuck, Peter, _yes_ ,” she pants.

Her hands slide from his shoulders up into his hair, gripping at both sides and making him whimper. Damn, he really is so fucking lucky. She knows he loves the way that feels and he plans to show her how much he appreciates it. 

Peter lets her direct him, lets her fingers in his hair guide his movements. He decides not to tease anymore, not to keep her waiting any longer. She deserves anything she wants, and he's far too overwhelmed with love and desire and reverence to give her anything different. He quickly finds her clit with the tip of his tongue, making delicate little circles around it, smaller and smaller as he feels her hips start to work under him, her fingers tighten in his hair. 

He doesn't bother to slip a finger inside of her now, knows that his tongue on her clit is all she really needs, sometimes all she wants. It doesn't take long before she comes, biting back another cry, clearly still aware of where they are. He expects her to be in tears again, not like it would be the first time--But when he looks up, her face is lit with a radiant smile. 

“Come here,” she tells him, her hands in his hair gentle but insistent when she tugs him upward. He scrambles up, beckoned as much by her words and hands as by her smile; she’s glowing, even though she’s gasping for breath, and it’s only when he’s this close that he can see there _are_ tears swimming in her eyes. 

She usually likes to be held after she comes. It’s a trait he knows she was surprised and somewhat embarrassed to discover about herself, but one she’s long since come to accept. He’s all prepared now to take her into his arms, hug her as she calms down, but here again she surprises him by holding his face between her palms when he tries to duck his head, keeping him above her. 

“Do you have any idea how much I love you?” she asks, and it doesn’t take more than that for hs eyes to start watering too. 

“Yeah,” he breathes. “I’m guessing it’s almost as much as I love you.” 

“No way,” says Gamora, still breathing hard. 

“No?” he asks, tracing her cheek, catching a few tears with his thumb. 

“No,” she repeats. “No, I--” She hesitates, then shakes her head. “I was going to say that I love you more. But that isn’t a competition that I would want to win. I love you immensely and you love me just as much.”

“Wow,” says Peter, tracing the line of her lips. He’s teasing but also not at the same time, because her competitive streak is adorable but it’s the truth in her words that makes him extra emotional. It’s not like he’s ever been unaware of how much she loves him, even before she was able to say it with words. And yet there’s still something overwhelming about all of this--about knowing all the odds that have been stacked against them, two orphans in an unkind galaxy. About knowing that they’ve found each other regardless, and found each other again and again. 

“I am happy to accept a tie in this competition,” she says affectionately, kissing the pad of his thumb where it rests over her lips. 

He nods, too choked for a second to form words until he’s able to manage, “Me too.” Then he moves his thumb because he’s got to kiss her, just a peck at first, but following her when she shifts a hand to the back of his head to deepen the kiss. He moans, sinking down a little closer to her. His arousal comes slamming back into his awareness, not that it ever went far. 

He only pulls away when his lungs demand it, and even then their lips still brush when she says, “How do you want to do this?”

“Baby, absolutely anything,” he says breathlessly, then quickly adds, “I want to see you.”

She hums thoughtfully, kisses him again, then hooks her leg over his hip and flips them so he’s on his back again. 

“Whoa,” he says, more out of admiration than shock. Gamora does this often enough, and he’s more than happy to let her do whatever the hell she wants with him. He smiles to himself for a moment as he thinks about her supporting his weight across a dark hotel parking lot, catching him when his rocket boots tipped over in the woods, lifting him above her head in the fitness center. It’s been hard to let himself believe, to make the fear take a backseat, but she’s been here all along--Beautiful, strong, warm. His.

“Oh, you like that?” she asks, grinning. She traces a hand over his chest, curling through the hair there again before moving lower, over his abs, his hip bone, finally wrapping around his erection.

“Fuck yes,” he practically growls, hips jumping despite the fact that he’s trying his best to control himself. 

She considers him, then sits back on her heels again. “Sit up.”

He can’t help but notice that she, besides still sitting on his thighs, has also not taken her hand off of him and seems to have no plans to. “You’re-- _ah_ \--making it a little hard, babe.”

Her smirk is positively devious. “More than a little hard, I’d say.” She swipes her thumb over the head of his dick, exactly the way she knows he likes, and he cries out, tossing his head back. 

“ _Mora_ ,” he whines, squirming. “Fuck.” 

“What?” she asks, tone dripping innocence. She does it again, this time after stroking her hand along the length of him. 

“You _know_ what,” he pants, delighted with her teasing, now even more than usual because it’s just so _her_ , so much like that ease they’ve had trouble getting back to since--well, since. 

“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” she insists, but she does loosen her grip on him enough that he no longer feels too paralyzed by pleasure to move; she doesn’t let go of him completely, though. 

“Okay,” says Peter, “then I guess I will have _no choice_ but to educate you through a show of my breathtaking strength.”

“You do have very nice muscles,” says Gamora, raking her eyes over them before tracing a finger through his happy trail. 

He gasps and shudders, tensing his thighs so hard that it almost hurts, every touch of hers making his hips threaten to buck up under her. Not that she’d mind, he thinks. She’d probably find it equal parts delightful and hilarious.

That isn’t his plan now, though, so he clenches his jaw and takes another breath, willing himself to focus on something besides his idiot dick. 

Lacing his fingers behind his head, he tightens his abs and does a neat sit-up, waggling his eyebrows at her. “Gotta warm those muscles up.”

“Oh, do you?” she asks, her gaze practically predatory as she watches the lines of his body shift and ripple.

“Yep, gotta.” He does another, then a third for good measure. Finally deciding he’s drawn this out long enough, he pulls himself up to a seated position, Gamora still on his lap. He groans as if it’s taking immense effort. Then he does a little half-bow, bowing his head so much he’s practically leaning against her shoulder, and he tilts it up to grin at her proudly. “Ta-da!”

“Yes, very impressive,” she says affectionately. “Now scoot back.”

“Oh, so demanding,” he says, obeying happily. He wraps an arm around her waist to help steady her, not that she needs it; despite his total lack of grace, she stays perfectly balanced on his thighs as he moves until his back is touching the headboard. 

“You love it,” Gamora says, finally letting go of his erection to lean in closer, arms over his shoulders and her face right in front of his, teasing him with how close their lips are. 

“I do,” he agrees, all honesty and affection. “And I love you.” 

“I love you too,” she says, all teasing notes from her voice gone. There’s a thousand things at once shining in her eyes as she looks at him, and right before she closes the distance between them to kiss him, she whispers, “More than anything.” 

Peter makes a raw, needy sound into the kiss, running his hands up her back and pulling her closer. She wraps her arms around his waist and presses the length of her body against his so that his erection is trapped between them. Then she rocks her own hips a bit, a slow, teasing gyration that gives him a taste of the friction he's so desperate to have.

“Gamora,” he groans, drawing out each syllable of her name until it's more of a whine than a word. “ _Fuck._ ”

“Yes,” she says sweetly, running a hand through his hair for what feels like the dozenth time, though no less arousing than the first. “That's what we're going to do, isn't it? Was that the next part of your fantasy?”

“I--yeah,” he pants, mind reeling. Part of him wants to just say _yes, yes, please yes now,_ but he makes himself take a breath and pause because this is too important. “But it doesn’t have to be. We don’t...We can do whatever you want, Mora.” 

“Peter,” she says, affectionate and confident. “I want you.” She kisses him. “So bad.” Another kiss. 

“I want you too,” he says. Understatement. He squeezes a hand between them, resting his palm against her abdomen. “And I wanted you just as much without the silver. I don’t want you to think--”

She kisses him again, cutting him off. This time it lasts until he’s nearly out of breath and thinking that he might just let himself pass out if it means they can keep kissing a little longer; but of course she pulls away before he can make that decision. 

“I know,” she says, rubbing her thumb over his lips. 

He presses a kiss to her thumb, a reflex at this point. Then he forces himself to lean back and meet her eyes. “Okay, so...Now? Are you ready?” His heart picks up a bit, equal parts anticipation and the tiniest bit of anxiety, just because he _knows_ how important this is and wants it to be good. 

“Yes, now,” she says softly, kissing his forehead tenderly. 

Peter puts his hands on her hips, practically a ritual now, though he knows she doesn’t really need any help aligning their bodies. Still he watches her, shifts with her, strokes his thumb very lightly against her side. He has to bite the inside of his lip to tamp down a cry as she finally sinks down onto him, burying his face in her neck when he’s finally, finally inside her.

They’re still for a moment, except for the rapid rise and fall of their chests. He keeps taking steadying breathes, both because he’s trying not to cry and trying not to just explode after five seconds, which would have to be a record. This is their first time in _weeks_ , after what felt like literally forever to her; he’s got to go slow, make it last. It’s too important. 

But after a few seconds, Gamora’s hand tightens in his hair and she whispers his name, repeats it until he lifts his head and looks at her -- and sees the same desperation he feels written all over her face. He hears it in the way she says his name again, feels it when she kisses him again and starts rocking her hips. 

“Oh, _fuck_ ,” he says, a strangled whimper against her lips. “ _Gamora_.” 

“Yes,” she pants, her own voice strangled. “We are.” 

She knows exactly what she’s doing, has made that joke dozens of times before, but never gets any less adorable in her self-satisfied expression. Peter throws his head back and laughs, feeling drunk on how much he loves her, how good her body feels moving with and against his. 

“You wanna go slow?” he teases when he catches his breath a bit and meets her eyes again. He’s not even close to serious -- even if he _was_ capable of slowing himself down right now, she’s set her own quick pace, already moving with abandon. 

“Did we -- _fuck_ \-- go slow in your fantasy?” she asks, paradoxically moving her hips even faster. He’s willing to bet she knows exactly what she’s doing, doesn’t even need to see her grin when he gasps, trying to remember how words work.

“We -- um -- in the-- _holy fuck, Gamora_ \-- we --” He trails off into a guttural groan as she shifts the angle a bit, giving him more room to move.

“Is that--an answer?” she asks, but she can’t manage the teasing tone. Her voice is strained and she moans when he thrusts his hips up to meet hers, her mouth open in pleasure. 

He’s immeasurably grateful that she doesn’t seem to need an actual answer right now; she’s leaned back slightly when she changed the angle, and he raises his legs so she can use them for balance. She takes him up on the silent offer immediately, throwing her hands back and using his knees for leverage as she moves her hips even faster. 

That, combined with the fact that this angle allows him to see her body better, means he’s way past the point of coherence. 

Still, he tries, is able to get out the words, “I--yeah. Sometimes. But sometimes-- _ah_ \--no,” before completely giving up. Rather than keep trying to pretend he can hold a conversation at the same time he’s gripping onto the bedsheets for dear life, he ducks his head to take her nipple in his mouth again. 

Gamora cries out, shuddering and momentarily losing her rhythm. He laves his tongue against it once, then again, but he can’t keep his mouth occupied for too long, needs it to gasp for breath instead. So he replaces it with his fingers, but even that gets clumsy after a few moments, their bodies moving too quickly, too close together.

Instead he braces his hands at the small of her back, feeling the strength of her muscles as she moves -- against him and around him, strong and warm and _alive._ He can feel his orgasm building too, knows that he won’t be able to last long now no matter what he does.

“You’d better hurry up,” he pants. “If you wanna win this race.”

She laughs, or tries to; it comes out half-groan. “What if I--want you to win?” 

He just shakes his head and whimpers, has totally lost the ability to form words. They’ve both lost their rhythms now; she’s basically just grinding against him and _holy hell_ , the friction is incredible. 

He does about all he can do, because she’s very close to getting what she wants and pushing him over the edge before her; he pulls her just that little bit closer, ducks his head and latches his mouth onto her neck, finding a sensitive spot there out of pure instinct and muscle memory, and starts sucking. 

“ _Peter!_ ” she cries sharply. In an instant, her thighs lock up around him and she collapses forward when she comes, her arms slipping off his knees to grip his shoulders almost painfully. 

He can’t move at all anymore with her in this position but it doesn’t matter. All he has to do is relax, let go and allow the heat of her body to push him over the edge. He muffles his cry into her neck, clinging to her desperately. There are tears in his eyes and he does nothing to stop them, letting all of the emotions out in heaving gasps, not quite sobs because he doesn’t have the breath for them.

Gamora is shaking, he becomes aware slowly. He notices her shoulders first, just a slight tremble with her breathing. But it grows from there, moves through the rest of her body until it’s practically convulsive.

“Babe?” he asks, his concern growing when she doesn’t immediately respond. “Gamora?”

Peter takes her by the shoulders and leans back, finally looking at her face. It’s then that he realizes she’s laughing, only she doesn’t have the breath to make a sound.

“Hey,” he says on a breath of relief. “What’s so funny?”

“That was--” She breaks off, gasps a few more times before she manages to get the words out. “That was--great. It seemed--It seemed impossible for so long but it was just--It was just _us._ ”

“Yeah, it was,” he agrees, laughing too, and crying still; damn but he loves her so much. “Just us. Like always. Like it always will be.” 

She nods, grinning and panting and wiping the tears from his cheeks. “I’m so sorry I thought I’d lost the silver. I’m sorry I scared you like that, I didn’t--”

“Hey, shh,” he says gently, rubbing her back. “You have nothing to be sorry for. I meant what I said: you are the same Gamora with or without the silver. But I am glad you didn’t lose it.” 

“Me too.” She furrows her brow in confusion. “I don’t know _how_ , though.” 

“We can worry about that later,” he says. “Nothing but cuddles, now.”

She laughs softly. “All right. Later.” 

He slips down a little against the headboard so he can lie flatter, and she shifts with him, resting her head on his chest. 

“All the time in the world, right?” he asks, brushing some hair away from her face. 

She smiles, hand over his heart, looking as content as he feels. “All the time in the universe.”


	31. Chapter 31

“You’ve got chocolate on your face,” Peter says, smirking, though he’s fairly certain Gamora is aware of that.

She’s half lounging on their picnic blanket, stretched out on her side as she languidly picks up one of their last few chocolate covered strawberries. The day is warm enough that they’ve started to melt, but that hasn’t interfered at all with her enjoyment of them or the cheese that’s balanced out their indulgent lunch. Her shirt has started to ride up, just enough to show a bit of silver. He hasn’t missed the fact that, for the first time in weeks, she hasn’t bothered to pull it back down.

“Oh, do I?” she asks, then makes a show of nibbling the bottom of the strawberry. It takes her several full minutes to get through eating the thing, which _definitely_ means she’s teasing him. She likes to savor her food, but not that much.

“Yep,” says Peter. “Right there.” He brushes his thumb over the corner of her mouth without actually removing the chocolate.

“I have chocolate here too,” says Gamora, licking her fingers one at a time.

His jaw slackens as he watches her slowly and methodically remove all the chocolate from her fingers. “Yeah, you do,” he says breathily. 

She sucks the tip of one of her fingers into her mouth for way longer than it should take to get the chocolate off, giving him a sly look. “Not anymore.” She wiggles her clean fingers demonstratively. 

“You still have some on your mouth, though,” he points out, after several seconds of open-mouthed staring. 

“Do I?” She sticks her tongue out to lick the corner of her mouth -- the wrong side, which he’s positive she knows. 

“You do,” he says as casually as he can manage. “I could help you with that if you want.”

“Oh, could you?” she asks, perfectly innocent.

“I’d be happy to.” He leans in and kisses the side of her mouth, sucking the chocolate off delicately. She lets out a tiny, pleased noise and he can’t help but kiss her more fully after that. She returns the kiss, slow and warm and making him melt faster than the chocolate. 

When they pull apart, both with less breath than before, he grins. “This picnic was the best idea ever.” 

She laughs and nods, leaning back against the tree behind them. “Terrans are very good at food.”

“Terrans are very good at a lot of things,” says Peter, leaning back against the tree too and looking up at its trunk. The heart they carved together is a couple of feet above his head, and he stretches his hand up to trace the bottom of it. “I mean, it’s not like I didn’t already know that. Terran music and movies are the best in the galaxy. But some of the newer things are pretty good too.”

“True,” says Gamora, picking up a toothpick and using it to skewer one of the last cubes of cheese. She looks at it for a moment before popping it into her mouth, less enthusiastic than she was with the strawberry.

There’s been a shift in her tone in general, he realizes. Subtle, but definitely there.

“But?” he prompts, dropping his arm and turning to look at her.

“But?” she echoes, then shrugs. “No but. I agree with you.”

He’s not fooled, though. He’s got four years of experience reading her, and she’s a terrible liar to boot. 

“But you don’t _like_ that you agree with me?” he guesses. 

She avoids his eyes, watching the toothpick as she passes it back and forth between her fingers the way he’s seen her do with her knives before. “Really, there’s no but. I agree with you and I’m happy about it. You deserve to enjoy your home planet.” 

She’s not quite lying. He knows she’s happy for him, that’s been plenty evident. She’s been along with him every step of the way, enjoying herself as much as he has, he’s pretty sure. There’s definitely something deeper there, though, something she’s not telling him. 

“You deserve to enjoy your home planet too,” he says, a little hesitant. 

As expected, she tenses up. She’d have dropped the toothpick if her reflexes weren’t what they are. “You know that I can’t.” 

He doesn’t quite agree with her there, but he leaves that alone for the moment. “Is that what’s wrong?”

“No,” says Gamora. “There’s nothing--” She cuts herself off, and he’s betting she’s realizing that trying to deny it again isn’t going to get her anywhere. She has, after all, spent the past two weeks encouraging him to talk to her openly. She sighs. “No. That is not what I was thinking about. I have never thought I could enjoy my homeworld again. That is simply a reality of my life.”

Peter studies her. “But you did think that I could enjoy mine?” He knows that’s true. She’s encouraged him to come here on more than one occasion, despite her own losses, despite her own misgivings. He doesn’t mind admitting that she was right on this one. “Even though I was being a dumbass about it?”

“I did,” she agrees earnestly. “And I am glad that you do. That you have family here, and--and that you have found meaning. It’s just--” He can see her throat work as she struggles to get out whatever it is she’s trying to say. “After all of this...How can I ask you to leave again, Peter? That would be incredibly selfish of me.”

“ _What?_ ” he says, staring at her slack-jawed again, this time for a different reason. “Why… What makes you think I don’t want to leave?”

“You have so much here,” she says, voice half a whisper, like she doesn’t want to be saying this out loud. “I don’t want you to feel that I’m holding you back from it.” 

“Holding me-- _Gamora_.” He shifts his body away from the tree to be facing her completely. He leans close to her with one hand supporting himself on the grass and the other cupping her face; he needs her to understand this. “Whatever I have here, I have _so much more_ with you. So much more.”

“I would stay here with you,” she says. She covers his hand with her own. “If that’s what you wanted.”

He tilts his head to kiss her wrist. “Thank you. But it’s not. Look, I like it here. I love my grandpa and all the connections to my mom. But my home is with you and the team. I’m not saying never. I may want to be a big Terran rock star when we retire, after all.” 

That earns him a smile, though there’s tears pooling in her eyes. He thinks he may have seen her cry more in the last few weeks than in the last four years combined. 

“But I’m not done being a Guardian yet,” he continues. “Not by a long shot.” 

“No?” she asks, though it isn’t a challenge. In fact her tone is tentative, almost. Cautious in her curiosity.

Peter furrows his brow, still studying her, trying to figure out how to read that. 

“No,” he repeats, matching her tone. “I mean--unless--do _you_ want to be done? Gamora, do you want to retire now?” 

That’s not a possibility he’s really considered, even after everything that’s just happened. Even if he might prefer for her to spend the rest of her life far away from the action, nothing but safe. He knows that Gamora is the most selfless person he’s ever met, despite all of her misgivings. Asking her to stop being a Guardian, to stop fighting for what’s right, would be asking her to give up a fundamental part of herself. 

If it’s what she wants, though...He’ll give up the fight and go sell hot chocolate on the beach for the rest of eternity in a heartbeat.

She cuts off that train of thought when she says, “No, no, that’s not what… I _do_ want to keep being a Guardian. I love being a Guardian.” 

She breaks off but he can tell she’s gathering her thoughts, so he waits patiently without a word for her to continue. Her thumb draws circles over the back of his hand, comforting him even as he’s trying to comfort her. 

She takes a breath and lets it out on a long sigh before continuing. “I want to be a Guardian still. But for the past two weeks, I have been wondering whether I would still _be able_ to. If I’m missing part of my soul, if I’m not even a whole person anymore, how can I possibly expect to help others?”

“Mora,” he breathes. He recalls the fears she’d confessed to him before, her feeling that she’s broken. “You _are_ whole. Do you still feel like you’re not?” 

“No,” she says, a small smile gracing her lips. “That’s what I am trying to tell you.” 

“Oh,” he breathes, those words taking a moment to sink in. 

It’s strange, looking at it in retrospect. Relative to the big picture, it’s only been a few short days since she first raised the concern about her soul, since he first feared for her ability to love him. It had seemed interminable, all-consuming then, a doubt he would never be able to shake. But now, looking backward, he realizes that somewhere along the line, it’s abated, disappeared as suddenly as it emerged. He can’t pinpoint when, but he has a dizzying sense of vertigo as he thinks about the past few weeks, the many times their lives have been upended and then righted all over again. Things are starting to feel whole again, he thinks. But still tender, like the fragile new skin on his palm. 

“Peter?” Gamora says quietly, resting a hand on his knee.

He shakes his head, jarred back to the present. “Sorry, sorry. I was just--thinking.”

She offers him a small smile. “Really? I had no idea.”

“Yeah, I do that sometimes,” says Peter. “But--specifically I was thinking that I’m proud of you.”

“Proud of me?” she asks, appearing taken aback. 

“I’m always proud of you,” he says. This is far from the first time he’s told her this, but she remains reluctant to accept that kind of compliment. He covers the hand that’s resting on his knee with his and squeezes it gently. “Mora, you have gone through so much in your life, and you’ve always been the best person I know anyway. That’s amazing enough. But now _this_ ; Just a few weeks ago you were--” 

He cuts himself off abruptly. He still has trouble saying those words. He wonders if it’ll ever get easier. 

“You know,” he continues. “But you’re still this same strong, kind, amazing, _whole_ person. I don’t think anyone else in the universe would have been able to handle it as well as you.” 

Gamora looks down, avoiding his eyes. “Peter, I don’t think--”

“Hey,” he says, cutting her off before she can go down a self-deprecating path. “I’ve got the best wife in the universe. You better not say anything bad about her.” 

She opens her mouth, closes it again, then huffs in frustration, because clearly he’s right and there’s just no way she can argue with it, much as she might want to.

“Also the most adorable,” he adds for good measure, and because it’s true.

“Don’t push it,” says Gamora, rolling her eyes. She stabs her now-empty toothpick into the grass just off the side of the blanket, as if proving her point. Or maybe just because she’s feeling the need to stab something that isn’t him.

Peter bites back a laugh, not about to tell her how adorable _that_ is. “Fine, fine. But my point stands. You’re amazing. Here you are, only just starting to get your life back, and you wanna go help other people.”

She shrugs, as if her answer ought to be obvious. “What is the purpose of having my life back if not that?”

He sighs, so full of affection that’s almost irritating. “See? Proving my point.”

“You are doing the same thing,” she says. “You’ve gone through just as much--”

“What?” he asks, baffled. “Babe, no, I--You were _dead_.”

“Exactly,” she says, rubbing his thigh. “I was, and you knew. I cannot imagine the agony of continuing to survive while you were dead.” 

He bites his lip, because he can’t deny that it was the worst few days of his life, the type of pain he wouldn’t wish on anybody. “Not for as long as--it felt like to you.” 

“Still,” she insists. “You’ve suffered unbelievably, and yet you want to go right back to helping people as well.” 

“Yeah, well.” He clears his throat, suddenly understanding why she’s not great at accepting compliments like this. “I guess we’re both awesome, huh?”

She laughs and kisses his cheek, making him glow. “I suppose I will accept that. We _are_ married, after all. We must be well-matched.” 

“The awesomest husband and wife in the galaxy,” he says, practically preening at saying both of those words. He wonders how Gamora would feel about him getting ‘ _Gamora’s husband_ ’ tattooed on his chest or something. He’ll have to bring that up later.

She watches him for a moment, then arches an eyebrow. “What?”

“ _What_ what?” Peter echoes, pretending he doesn’t know exactly what she’s asking. 

“You had that look,” says Gamora. “The one you get when you’re thinking about something you know I probably won’t like. What is it?”

He hums thoughtfully, then decides to just tell her. “So, you know how you won’t let me get your name tattooed on me?”

She narrows her eyes. “Right, I hadn’t forgotten…”

“Well,” he says, “what if _instead_ of your name, I got a tattoo right here--” He breaks off, gesturing to his chest. “--that says ‘Gamora’s husband’?”

She shakes her head. “That’s still my name, Peter.”

“Mr. Gamora?” he suggests. He’s mostly teasing. Mostly. “Or what about just ‘Mr. and Mrs. Awesome’?”

“While we are _awesome_ ,” she admits, “that is not our last name. So not quite accurate.”

He grins when she says ‘ _our last name_.’ “How ‘bout matching tattoos then? Just ‘husband’ and ‘wife,’ tattooed on our asses?” 

She purses her lips as if in deep thought. He resists the urge to kiss her because he wants to keep this going. “How about I just call you my husband, and you call me your wife at every opportunity? I think we will remember well enough that we won’t need reminders on our asses.” 

“Oh, I’m definitely gonna introduce you as my wife to every single person we meet,” he says. That’s just inevitable. “And everyone we’ve already met. Maybe I’ll just get a really loud speaker and blast it constantly everywhere we go.” 

“I would expect nothing less,” she says with an indulgent smile. “And I will introduce you as my husband. It’s accurate, after all. But perhaps we can turn the speaker down when we’re working.” Her face falls a bit, her smile turning more artificial as her thoughts clearly shift, unspoken. 

Peter reaches out, touching her cheek very lightly. “What?” he asks softly, meeting and holding her gaze. 

She sighs, shaking her head. “I want the universe to know that we belong to each other. I just--wonder if that is wise.”

“Gamora…” He shakes his head, struggling for the words that will magically alleviate this fear. It's one of those familiar, painful constants they've lived with the past four years, just like the way she constantly expects and accepts abuse from people who choose only to see her past. “You know that's a risk I've always been willing to accept. It's not like we've ever kept this a secret.”

“No,” she agrees. “Subtlety is not our forte.”

“Then what are you worried about?” he asks, still gently. 

She swallows, looks away. “I told you, I--I saw futures where you suffered for being with me. It's one thing to imagine it. Another to see.”

“Oh,” he breathes. It’s not like he’s forgotten about that, or any of the things she’s told him, but _god_ , she’s seen and gone through _so much_. “Mora. I know that must’ve been—horrible. But you know I’d choose to be with you every time, right? No matter what the consequences are.” 

“That is what scares me,” she says vehemently. “That I have _seen_ you disregard the consequences, disregard your own life for me; that I have seen others take advantage of that.” 

“You can’t tell me you didn’t do the exact same thing in some of those visions,” he says. 

“That’s diff—“ He gives her a look and she cuts herself off, for which he’s grateful. She sighs and continues, “That’s not the point.”

“Then what is the point?” he asks, still fairly calm and gentle. If she had told him this much earlier in their relationship -- or hell, even just last week with how insecure he was then -- he would have been a lot more worried, thinking she was about to tell him they shouldn’t be together for his own good or something. But he’s secure enough now, thankfully, not to fly into a panic. “Do you want to keep it a secret that we’re married?”

“No,” she says quickly. “I told you, I want the entire universe to know. But I’m afraid that is selfish of me.” 

“Gamora,” he sighs. “You don't have a selfish bone in your body.”

“Thanos replaced all of my bones with cybernetics,” she says flatly. 

It's far from the first time he's heard this, but he winces anyway, every time. Still, he's determined to make his point. “What would Knight Rider say about cybernetics being selfish?”

The corners of her lips twitch in the ghost of a smile. “He would say they are incapable of emotions.”

“Exactly!” Peter says triumphantly. “Therefore, not a selfish bone in your body.”

She shakes her head. “Still. I want to be a Guardian and I want the universe to know we are married. But--But I am uncertain that I am ready to accept you putting your life in danger again. Are you prepared to do that for me?”

“Of course,” he says immediately, confused; he’d just told her this. “I’d put my life in danger for you anytime, anywhere--”

“No,” she sighs. “Peter, not...I mean, are you willing to accept _me_ putting my life in danger again?” 

He inhales sharply, like the words are an actual blow. The thought of Gamora risking her life again, or even being in a dangerous situation -- which tends to happen a lot, in their line of work -- makes him want to wrap her up in a blanket and never let go of her. He never likes her in a risky situation in the first place, but that’s something he’d quickly learned to deal with and compartmentalize. But _now_...

“I…” He trails off, unable to articulate it. 

“Exactly,” Gamora says, understanding him anyway. She more than likely feels the same sense of panic at the thought. 

“That’s what we do,” he says a little desperately. “We can’t really be Guardians without getting into danger sometimes.” 

“I know,” she says, rubbing his thigh. “I’m not saying we can’t or shouldn’t. But perhaps we don’t need to jump right into another battle like this one.”

“God, no,” he says vehemently. Then his chest clenches in a different way, and he takes a deep breath before he says, “I think the first Guardian thing we need to do is go check on Xandar.” 

“Oh,” she says, tensing visibly. It's clear she hasn't thought about Xandar for a while, has perhaps even allowed herself to temporarily forget her guilt and grief over the tragedy there. He knows he had, for a while there. “Right. We do owe it to them.”

Peter swallows and tries to tell his brain that it is not allowed to go into a spiral of self-loathing over the fact that he's reminded her. It's not like the subject could have been avoided forever, or even should have been. Gamora has never appreciated attempts to protect her from less than pleasant realities. 

Instead he forces himself to nod. “I think the others will want to go there too. See it for ourselves, and see what we can do. Maybe--Maybe it won't be as bad as we're imagining. I mean, we're probably thinking the worst.”

“Right,” Gamora says again, her tone unconvincing. “Maybe.”

She doesn't mention the possibility of being unwelcome, or being blamed for Thanos’ crimes, he notices. So, small victories. He'll take it. 

“Hey, we’re ready to be Guardians again,” he says encouragingly. He kisses her temple. “This is a good thing.”

“Yes,” she agrees with a small smile. “Are you certain you’re ready though? To leave your home planet? Your grandfather?”

“For now,” he says wistfully, taking in the picturesque day; the slight breeze, the sounds of farm animals, the sight of the house and the knowledge that his grandpa is alive and well and loves him. “It’s not forever. I’ll miss it, but I already miss the others. It’s time to get our family back together.”

Her smile widens. “I think so, too. And we will come back here soon.”

“I don’t wanna wait another thirty years to see him again,” he says. “I want the others to meet him.” 

“Perhaps they can meet someone else too,” she says, when Sandwich, their new feathered best friend, tears away from the flock who had been pecking at grass nearby to come running up to them. 

“Aww, she wants to come with us,” he says, giggling as always at the way chickens move. 

“She wants food,” Gamora says dryly. 

“She’d get along with Drax, then.”

“And Groot,” she says, wrinkling her nose a bit as Sandwich plucks a tiny worm out of the grass and devours it happily. “And Rocket. And you.”

“Hey!” says Peter. “I seem to recall that my wife has won quite a few of our ship-wide eating contests.”

She smiles proudly and shifts to sit cross-legged, facing Sandwich, who's started to peck at the edge of their blanket. “True. So I suppose she would get along well with all of us. Perhaps we could make her a space suit?”

For a moment he's taken aback, caught trying to figure out how to tell her that it's probably a very bad idea to steal one of his grandpa's chickens for a weird space pet. But then she waggles her eyebrows in what he knows is an imitation of himself and Peter snorts, realizing that she's joking. 

“Here,” says Gamora, picking up one of her discarded strawberry tops and offering it in the palm of her hand. 

Sandwich pecks at it, clucking happily. 

“She’s a good farm pet,” Peter offers as a compromise. “One of many, maybe,” he adds, thinking about how much she’d loved the cows, and that there had been horses here in that future she saw. 

Gamora smiles serenely and leans back against the tree. She continues to let Sandwich eat out of her hand as the chicken climbs onto her lap. “I like the sound of that.”

* * *

A few hours later, their stuff is packed and piled up next to the door, now with the addition of a few of his mother’s things. Her Walkman sits in a place of honor: clipped to his belt right where his used to go. They’ve been ready to head out for a while now, and yet they’re still here, sitting at the kitchen table across from his grandpa. It turns out that, much as Peter _is_ eager to get back to the team, it’s difficult to tear himself away. 

“You're welcome to stay one more night,” George says, his tone an unconvincing attempt at casual that Peter abruptly recognizes as shockingly similar to his own. “If it's gettin’ too late. Wouldn't want you getting lost. Country roads in the dark, you know.”

“I'm sure it will be fine,” says Gamora. “Space is far more dark than light, after all. Traveling by daylight is actually unusual for us.”

“Oh,” says George, looking taken aback at the ease of her response. “Right. I guess space travel _would_ be a whole other ballgame. Speaking of which, Pete, where'd you learn how to drive a boring old Earth car? They got those in space?”

“Knight Rider is a fully autonomous vehicle,” Gamora says helpfully. “So there's no need.”

Peter flushes deeply, acutely aware of his grandpa's gaze on him now, equal parts fond and incredulous. “Your car's name is Knight Rider?”

“It’s Stark’s car,” he mumbles.

His grandpa’s not fooled. “But who named it?”

“Should I not have said that?” Gamora whispers, sounding distressed. 

Peter’s too delighted at his grandpa being so playful to stay embarrassed for long, though. “No, it’s fine. I named it.”

“You know the car’s name wasn’t actually--”

“Yeah, yeah, I know,” he laughs. “But Knight Rider is a way cooler name than K.I.T.T!”

Now that she knows he’s okay with this, Gamora says, “Ask him what our ships’ names are. They are even better.”

The pride in her voice makes Peter straighten up with a grin. He doesn’t even wait for his grandpa to ask. “My first ever ship is the Milano. The new one is the Benatar.” 

His grandpa laughs, his face lit up; he looks the most like Meredith when he laughs, Peter’s noticed. “I’d have guessed Fleetwood Mac.”

Peter clears his throat, recalling the few times he’d half-jokingly named Gamora’s breasts Fleetwood and Mac. 

Gamora, her cheeks now tinged a darker green, quickly changes the subject, saying rather loudly, “This ice cream is delicious!” 

“Gamora is an ice cream connoisseur!” says Peter, in the same loud, cheerful tone. She gives him a narrow-eyed glance at that, but seems to realize it's in her best interest not to protest. 

Fortunately his grandpa either doesn't notice the change in tone or does and mercifully decides not to comment on it. “Is that so? Do they have ice cream in space?”

“We do!” says Gamora, clearly pleased to have something she can contribute without any manufactured awkwardness. “Well...I suppose that's a bit of a generalization. Space has many and varied cultures that occupy it. But most of them do have something analogous to ice cream, and chocolate, and other candies.”

“Huh!” says George, shaking his head in wonder. “Who woulda thought?”

“Peter has always said Earth had the best candy and desserts,” says Gamora, then smiles proudly at him before turning back to George. “I have to say that I agree. Not that I ever doubted his judgment.”

“Well, I am glad you enjoy it.” His grandpa nods to the carton of ice cream she’s holding. At some point, she’d given up on the idea of _being polite_ and only taking a bowl-full, and she’s now half way through the carton of chocolate raspberry. “I’d have thought Earth food would seem boring compared to all the galaxy has to offer.” 

“Never!” Peter says vehemently. 

“I have had some of the best food of my life here,” Gamora agrees. “I particularly enjoyed the s’mores.” 

“Yeah, that’s the key to her heart there,” he says, tapping her carton. She pulls it closer to her chest possessively and pretends to glare at him. “Chocolate.” 

“I’ll be sure to keep the freezer well-stocked,” George says. “Assuming you want to visit again.”

“Of course!” Peter and Gamora say at the same time. 

“You couldn’t keep us away,” Peter insists. “Actually--Nebula and Stark found a way to call phones from our holos. So we can keep in touch that way too!”

 

“Oh, that’s wonderful,” his grandpa says, looking both delighted and relieved. “Nebula…She’s one of the members of your team, right?” 

“Sort of,” says Gamora.

“Yes,” Peter says firmly, at the same time. He knows Nebula continues to hedge about her place on the team, reluctant to commit to anything good or healthy. It’s part of her characteristic bravado, he knows. But he’s also started to suspect lately that it’s part fear of rejection, fear of overstepping her bounds and being told that she doesn’t deserve a place among them. He’ll have to do something about that, he thinks. As soon as they get back, he’s going to annoy her into insisting that she is a Guardian, officially.

“Nebula is my sister,” says Gamora, an unmistakable hint of pride in her voice. “But I was not--close with her until the past few years. We are still working on our relationship.”

“Turns out their--father, for lack of a better term--was an even bigger jerk than mine,” says Peter. He’s not about to go into the details, knows that Gamora lives in fear of people associating her with Thanos, Soul Stone nightmare visions notwithstanding. But it still seems suddenly important for his grandpa to know, because it makes everything about the woman she is that much more precious, that much more impressive.

She nods. “I never thought much about family until I met Peter. He taught me the true value of it.”

“And now she’s got an awesome one!” Peter says happily. “We both do. Oh! That reminds me: we wanted to give you something!” He’s up out of his chair before he’s finished speaking, dashing to their stuff by the door. 

“Oh, yes!” Gamora says. “We went to Wall Mart!”

His grandpa chuckles. “I was wondering where you got all those Star Wars shirts.” 

“Well, yeah,” Peter says, coming back with the grey plastic bag. “We got those the first time. But we went again this morning! That’s where we got the picnic stuff. And this!” 

Gamora looks on excitedly as he pulls out the large photo sheet and puts it on the table in front of his grandpa. It’s a picture collage, featuring the whole team minus Nebula. The old-fashioned photo system here can’t download pictures from holos, so they’d asked the team to take pictures of themselves with their phones and send them their way so they could make this. They’ll have to make sure to bring a picture of Nebula the next time they visit so his grandpa can have pictures of the whole family. 

“Oh my goodness,” George says quietly, his voice lower and a little wobbly. 

“This is Drax,” says Peter, pointing him out first, in the upper right hand corner. He's posed on one of Stark's plush sofas, looking utterly incongruous in his usual utilitarian pants and boots, no shirt of course despite the upscale surroundings. He's also grinning broadly, no doubt directed to do so by Mantis. It makes him look completely maniacal. Which is fitting, really. 

“He looks--friendly,” says George, clearly appreciative of the introduction but searching for the correct words to express the strangeness of seeing so many different aliens for the first time. 

“He is a great warrior among his people,” says Gamora. “And he had a wife and daughter of his own, but they were--lost.”

“Good he found all of you, then,” says George. “It's a terrible thing to lose a child.”

Peter reaches out to touch his shoulder, and Gamora’s hand joins his. His grandpa offers them a wan smile, his voice falsely casual when he points to another picture and asks, “And who is that?”

Peter laughs when he looks at it. “That’s Mantis.” 

It’s a picture of just her face, an extreme close-up. Her chin is out of frame, and the beginnings of her antennae are only just visible. She’s grinning from ear to ear, as wide as Drax but significantly less intimidating. 

“She is the empath,” Gamora explains. “The one who joined us after--well, after Ego.”

“He’d kidnapped her when she was a baby,” Peter says, feeling the familiar but no less strong surge of anger at Ego and protectiveness towards Mantis when he thinks about it. “Made her his servant, basically.” 

“And that’s what he wanted to do with you too,” George practically growls. “I _knew_ that man was bad news. I knew it the minute I saw him.”

“He was,” says Peter, making another conscious choice not to include all of the details, particularly not when they’re about to leave. He is _not_ about to leave his grandpa’s head full of images of his daughter being murdered, or his grandson being used as a battery.

“I am glad he is dead,” Gamora says savagely.

George nods again, but then his expression softens a bit. “Then again, he _did_ give you to us. Seems this world is very lucky to have you.”

“Many worlds are,” Gamora says proudly, putting down her ice cream to pat his arm. 

Peter feels his cheeks flush again, suddenly overwhelmed with the compliments focused on him. He loves attention ordinarily, but there’s something oddly vulnerable about this. He clears his throat. “Hey, we were talking about Mantis, though. She came with us after we killed Ego, and she’s basically the sweetest person I’ve ever met.”

“She is very kind,” Gamora agrees. “And very attuned to others’ feelings, even without use of her powers.” 

“She’s like a little sister to me,” he says fondly. 

George smiles, but his attention is captured by another picture. “What about this one?”

Peter follows his finger. “He’s like a sidekick--hey!” He pouts when Gamora elbows him in the side. She glares at him and he sighs. “Co-pilot, then.”

“His name is Rocket,” Gamora supplies. 

His grandpa is still squinting at the picture. “Pardon my saying so, but he looks an awful lot like a raccoon.” 

Peter snorts and dodges Gamora’s elbow this time. “Don’t tell him that. He’ll turn your fridge into a bomb.”

“He has a bit of a short temper,” Gamora admits. “But he’s brilliant with technology. And he’s almost as good a pilot as Peter.” 

“That must be pretty damn good,” his grandpa says with confidence, despite never having seen him fly.

“I am the best,” Peter says with Drax-like modesty. “Rocket’s good too, though, I guess. And you’d definitely want him on your side in a firefight.” 

“I will hope to never see that in person,” says George. “And I will hope to keep my refrigerator intact.”

“I will do my utmost to defend your refrigerator,” Gamora says earnestly. “Though Rocket is both stealthy and formidable. Fortunately, he also has a habit of rebuilding the things he breaks, often much better than they were to begin with.”

Peter laughs, full of affection. “That’s true. Want an upgrade? Piss Rocket off. He’ll blow up your sh--uhh…” He trails off, suddenly very aware of the fact that he’s using profanity in front of his grandpa, who most definitely wasn’t all right with that when he was a kid. “He’ll blow up _shtuff_ and then build you version 2.0!”

“Uh huh,” George says absently. He’s still looking curiously at Rocket’s image. “I know you said he’s not really a raccoon. But I gotta wonder, are there any other...uh...life forms that resemble the ones we got here?”

“Do we have similar animals, you mean?” Peter asks. George nods.

“Oh!” Gamora says. “You’ve told me about...butterfleas?”

“Butterflies,” he says gently. “But yeah! There’s this bug on Krylor that looks like a giant butterfly. Lots of planets have animals that look like dogs. There’s a lot of similar animals and bugs and stuff, actually.” 

“Huh,” George says again. “Apparently you got trees, too, ‘cept these ones talk.” 

Peter and Gamora both laugh. “There are non-talking trees as well,” Gamora says.

“ _That_ tree is Groot,” Peter tells him. “He’s the team son. Our son. We’ve all raised him since he was born.”

George gasps and finally tears his eyes away from the pictures to look at them. “You mean I got a great-grandson?”

“Yeah,” Peter says happily, not having made that connection before. “You’ll love him!”

“He is a good person,” Gamora says, her smile soft and affectionate. “He’s strong, sweet… He is going through a phase right now.” 

George snorts as he looks back at the picture of him. Whoever took it had clearly given up on getting him to look at the camera; he’s sitting on a couch, the same one Drax posed on. The camera caught him mid eye-roll, video game clutched tight in his hands. 

“Looks for all the world like a human teenager,” says George. “Guess I shoulda realized they'd have videogames in space too, but the thought just never occurred to me.”

“Actually,” says Peter, eager to share this with his grandpa, “that's an old Ter--Earth game! Stuff from here is kind of a curiosity in space. It makes its way into shops that specialize in rare things and people pay a lot for it. I remember finding that for Groot. He was so excited.” He breaks off and shakes his head. “Of course, I'm sure he'd never admit now that I've ever gotten him a cool present in his life.”

“He loves you,” says Gamora, rubbing his arm again. 

“I know,” says Peter. “I do. God knows I was a little shit at his age.”

His grandpa looks a bit wistful, and Peter wonders suddenly whether he's wishing he'd gotten to share those rebellious years. “I'm sure Groot will turn out to be a fine young man. Just like his Dad.”

“Yes, he will,” Gamora says warmly. 

Peter clears his throat. “Next time Rocket tells me I have a big ego, I’m blaming you two.”

She laughs. “I’m fine with that.”

George is still looking at Groot’s picture with that same wistful smile. “Your mom was like this once, you know.”

Peter’s heart stops then takes up in double time in an instant. His mother? A moody pre-teen? Somehow the thought had never occurred to him. “Really?”

“Oh, yeah,” George says, laughing. “Except she’d be holding music instead of a video game. But she’d roll her eyes at me and her mom, and pout about chores. And--” He breaks off on another laugh, this one watery though. He swipes at his eyes. “And she’d either never wanna come out of her room, or she’d wanna be as far away from the farm as possible. Number of times she snuck out of the house...I was so mad at her, but it never stopped her.”

“My mom snuck out of the house?” Peter breathes, amazed. He gets a sudden flash of himself around twelve or thirteen, Yondu screaming at him because he’d taken the Milano for a joyride while everyone else was asleep. 

“She sure did,” George says. “Most of the time she’d go into town, go dancing, come back late at night. She’d skip school, too. Got off on the wrong foot there as a kid. Had a lot of trouble reading and writing. Didn’t think much of it back then. Guess now there’d probably’ve been some kinda help for her.”

Peter feels his mouth go dry, remembering the cards and drawings, the way his letters used to move and flip themselves backward on the page. He also remembers thinking, as a kid, that he was the only one in the world making mistakes like that. He swallows hard. “She did?”

George nods, apparently knowing exactly what Peter means by the question. “You always had more in common with her than just a taste in movies and music, Pete. She caught up by the time she was a teenager, luckily. Always assumed you would too.”

Gamora, who of course knows about all his troubles, rubs his back soothingly. He scratches the spot above his ear without meaning to, around where he knows his translator sits.

“Well, Yondu found out after a while about my trouble with reading and stuff,” he says quietly. Even almost thirty years later, the thought is a mixture of embarrassing and pleasant; it was one of the first decent memories he has of Yondu. “He took me to get an implant, something added to my translator that fixed that. So I don’t know if I’d have caught up without it.”

“Translator?” George says quizzically. 

“Oh, yeah,” Peter says, forgetting that isn’t a thing here. He tops the spot above his ear. “We’ve all got one. Everyone who travels a lot does.” 

Gamora nods. “I am speaking Zehobereian right now.” 

His grandpa’s eyes widen, appearing more impressed by this than almost anything else they’ve told him. “So then, you’re hearing me…?”

“In that language too, yes,” she confirms. 

“And you hear Peter…” He trails off, the answer clearly implied, but he isn’t voicing any assumptions out loud.

“The same,” says Gamora. “He hears me in Terran English, just as you are right now.”

“Wow,” says George, scratching his own head in an echo of Peter’s gesture, though obviously he isn’t remembering some kind of implant. “Here I thought all the new _phone_ translator things were mighty impressive. Certainly explains how aliens can know so much more about us than we do about them, I guess. Those things of yours ever fail?”

“Sometimes they miss subtleties,” says Peter, thinking fondly of Zardu Hasselfrau. “For example, Gamora heard me say that my childhood dream was to be a pebble star.”

Gamora flushes, but nods. “At times the translator uses synonyms that do not work for certain colloquialisms. But for the most part, they are very reliable.”

“We made up a system of hand signals though,” says Peter, proudly. “You know, so we can communicate just in case anything ever happens, like, mid-battle. Also I just kinda wanted us to have a secret handshake.” He holds out a hand to Gamora, prepared to demonstrate.

She blinks at him. “You can’t be serious.” 

“Of course I am!” he says earnestly. 

“In front of your grandpa?” she hisses, like that somehow makes it bad. 

“Why not?” he asks, grinning. “C’mon, it’s not like it’s dirty or something! It’s fun!” 

She sighs deeply, but relents and stands up with that same little head-shake she always does when she’s indulging him in something. 

“You do the count,” he says, vibrating with excitement. 

“You are ridiculous,” she says, breaking out into a grin. He flattens his hand, holding it as if they’re going to shake, and she claps hers against it four times as she counts, “Five, six, seven, eight!” 

On the last number they clasp their hands together, and clasp their other hands above them. Peter makes a ‘ _wheee_ sound as they lift their arms then abruptly bring them back down, letting go and spreading their arms out dramatically. 

George starts clapping but Peter cuts him off. “Oh, we’re not even close to done!” 

“There is a lot involved in this handshake,” Gamora says, as they each lift a foot and tap both sides of their ankles before putting it down. “None of which involves shaking hands.”

“That’s why it’s a secret,” Peter says, the _duh_ implied, as they hold their hands out in front of their chests, then push them forward to clap each other’s. 

Then comes the all-important finger-guns at each other, complete with with _pew, pew, pew_ sound effects, and the miming of an explosion between them. 

George sits in silence for a long moment, waiting to make sure they’re finished before he finally starts to applaud again, this time even more enthusiastically.

“Thank you,” Gamora says earnestly. Then she turns back to Peter. “I have never understood why we pretend to shoot each other, though.”

“Oh,” says Peter, considering. “Well...it’s not real guns, it’s finger guns.”

“Aren’t those just pretend real guns?” asks Gamora. “Which is what I said. Pretending to shoot each other.”

“Yeah,” he allows, still struggling a bit to come up with an answer. It’s not like he’s put a lot of thought into the meaning behind making finger guns at people. He just knows it’s a thing cool people do. “But it’s not like...not like real weapons. It’s like...you’re shooting each other with love?”

“Peter,” she sighs, shooting daggers of love from her eyes as she rolls them.

“Don’t question it too much, it’s a secret,” says Peter, putting a finger to his lips. Then, before she can analyze this anymore, he points to the last picture in the collage, which is him and Gamora in front of the chapel. “This is one of our wedding pictures.”

They’re just standing in this one, his arm around her, but they’re absolutely beaming. They’re not doing finger-guns in the picture, sadly, but Peter makes note to do that for another picture. 

“One of?” George asks, smiling fondly at the picture.

“Yeah!” Peter reaches eagerly into the Wal-Mart bag again, pulling out the photo envelope inside it. It’s thick, stuffed to the point that it can barely close. “We did a whole photoshoot, basically! Joe, the priest dude, was really great about it.” 

He takes the massive stack of pictures out and hands them to George, who takes them with a bemused laugh. The one on top is a slight variation of the one in the collage, with Gamora on her tiptoes, arms around his shoulders instead. 

“You sure did,” George says fondly, flipping slowly through the pictures. Peter’s all prepared to go through these with him, but before they even get to the pictures of Gamora giving him a piggy-back ride, he notices his grandpa suppressing yawns left and right. 

“There are a lot of pictures,” Gamora says softly, apparently noticing the same thing. “Perhaps you can look through the rest of them some other time. We made copies for ourselves.” 

“Yes,” says George, sounding equal parts grateful for the album and for the chance to retire for the night. “I will. You folks still planning to hit the road tonight? It's gettin’ real late. Sure you don't wanna stay one more night?”

Peter hesitates for a moment, tempted and knowing that it would be easy. George would welcome them, Gamora would support him...But he can't ignore the ache of longing that surges through him at the pictures of the others. The past few weeks have been a liminal space, wonderful and horrible in turns, something both more and less than real. Now it's time to go home. 

“Yeah,” says Peter, running his hand over the pictures in the collage. “Our family needs us.”

George nods, his smile a little sad. “Your family is important. Clearly you don’t need me reminding you.”

“We’ll be back to visit soon,” Gamora promises. 

“You’re our family too,” Peter says, resting his hand on his grandpa’s shoulder. “Maybe next time you can meet the rest of them!” 

“I would love that,” George says sincerely. He pats the hand Peter’s resting on his shoulder, then holds it out. “Help me up, would you? I’ve got something for you before you leave.” 

“Sure!” Peter takes his hand and pulls him up a little too enthusiastically, but he only stumbles forward a little before Gamora steadies him. “Oops.”

“Boy doesn’t know his own strength,” George says with unmistakable pride, patting his arm. “Good thing you know yours,” he adds to Gamora with a wink. 

She snorts, though it’s affectionate. “I have rarely seen Peter _under_ estimate his strength.”

“Hey!” says Peter, feigning offense. “I'll have you know that--” He breaks off and grins. “Nah, I'm kidding, she's right. Last week she literally used me as a weight. In her workout. Basically the hottest thing _ever_ \--”

“Peter,” Gamora hisses, her cheeks flushed again. 

He clears his throat. “Sorry, sorry. I should let you go get the--whatever it is.”

“Right,” says George, suppressing laughter, then moves toward the living room. 

Peter becomes aware again of the effort in his grandpa's movements, the weight that the years and the losses have left on his shoulders. 

“We can stay longer if you would like,” Gamora offers, resting a hand on his arm. 

“No.” He swallows. “Just--suddenly occurred to me how much easier it was to pretend I didn't care.”

“The only way to not lose a person,” says Gamora, clearly aware that she's echoing him, “is to never have them to begin with.”

He bites his lip, then pulls her closer with an arm around her and kisses her temple. “I’d rather have him than not.” 

“I know,” she says softly. “You do. Let’s enjoy that.” 

He nods and keeps his arm around her shoulders as they follow George into the living room. He’s so focused on monitoring the way his grandpa walks, keeping one hand at the ready in case he needs to catch or support him -- though he’s really not walking that poorly -- that at first he fails to see what’s new in the room. 

It’s not until George picks up the large book from the coffee table that Peter realizes it’s there; and, upon further inspection when George holds it out to him, that it’s not even a book. 

“I made this for you,” George says somewhat awkwardly, gesturing to Peter with it when he doesn’t take it right away. “After you said you hadn’t seen a picture of your mom in so long.” 

He takes it slowly, knowing what it is now; the knowledge makes his fingers tremble. What he’s holding is a thick leather-bound photo album, the kind that feels high quality and expensive. 

“Oh,” he breathes, looking up at George for a moment as the reality of it sinks in. He’s seen more pictures of his mother in the past couple of days than in his entire life up to this point. Yet the prospect of seeing more, _having_ more is simultaneously wonderful and painful, twisting something deep inside of his chest. It’s also not lost on him that he and his grandpa have managed to choose the same gift for each other. After so many years of assuming they had nothing in common, there’s a bittersweet serendipity to it. 

“Some of ‘em didn’t copy too well,” says George, running a hand through his hair. “Digital machines, you know. Don’t always do so well with old photos.”

“It’s perfect,” Peter insists, opening it finally. The first picture he sees is of his mom, looking young and vulnerable, lying in a hospital bed. He’s so used to thinking of her there as part of her illness, part of her dying, that it takes him a moment to notice there’s a smile on her face and a baby in her arms.

“That’s you,” says George, pointing.

Peter lets out a watery gasp, tracing the image of his mother’s face with his finger. His finger is unsteady and he’s already struggling not to cry. 

Gamora is half leaning into him, rubbing his back soothingly. “She was so happy. She already loved you so much.” 

“She was,” he whispers, finding himself grinning almost as wide as his mom is in the picture. “She did.” The evidence is there, all over the page. There’s a few more pictures of her holding him in the hospital, and one of her when she’s very pregnant with him, smiling serenely down at her belly. 

He’s never doubted that his mother loved him, that she truly did see him as the light of her life. But he has wondered as he’s gotten older whether she was happy when she was pregnant, how happy she could have been to have a baby so young and presumably unplanned, at least on her part. 

He can see her happiness right in front of him now. He flips the page and there’s another of her when she was pregnant, pointing excitedly at her belly. She looks radiant, like she could be literally glowing. He wonders for a second who took that picture, feels a stab of fear when he considers that it could have been Ego, but he shoves that to the back of his mind. 

“Where did you get these?” he asks, though he immediately wonders if he's going to regret knowing the answer. 

George just shakes his head, though. “She had ‘em. I'm ashamed to say I never saw them ‘til after her death. Tucked in envelopes and notebooks here and there. I put them together when I went through her things. Guess at the time it was a bit of a memorial.”

For both him and his mother, Peter thinks but doesn't say. 

Turning the page, he sees that the pictures get sparse quickly, more and more time passing between them. His mom still looks just as joyful and full of life, though, looking at him in every one. He bites his lip, realizing that it won't stay that way because it can't. At this rate, he'll reach the ones from when she was sick in another page or two. He considers, then decides he doesn't want to look any further right now.

Instead, he turns to his grandpa and wraps him in a one-armed hug. “Thank you. Thank you.”

“You’re welcome, Pete,” he says gruffly, hugging him tightly, the photo album between them. “You deserve pictures of your mom.” 

He pats Peter’s back a couple times before pulling back a bit. There are definitely tears swimming in George’s eyes, which does nothing to prevent them from springing to Peter’s eyes as well. It’s made even worse when George cups his face with both hands, the way he’d done when they’d first shown up on his doorstep a few days ago. 

“You have turned into such a wonderful man,” he says emphatically. “Even better than I ever imagined. I couldn’t be prouder of you.” 

“Thanks,” Peter croaks, all he can manage. He’s barely holding it together as it is. 

George wipes a tear away from Peter’s cheek before dropping his hands and turning to Gamora. “And you’ve got a wonderful wife, and you seem to have a terrific family.” He pulls her in for a hug and she returns it with feeling. 

“I do,” Peter agrees, swiping at his cheeks. 

“And now,” says George, “it’s time for you to get back to them. Getting to know you these few days, I can only imagine how much they miss you.”

“We’ll visit,” he promises again, unable to get more words than that out past the lump in his throat.

“I will make sure of it,” says Gamora.

He loses track of anything else that happens then, because it’s all he can do to take her hand and let himself be led to the door, grabbing the bags along the way. His vision is swimming, tears rolling in a steady stream down his cheeks. It’s utterly bizarre, to feel such grief at leaving a place he’s avoided for so many years, but that does nothing to dull the sharp ache of it.

“Hello, Mr. Star-Lord,” says Knight Rider, his many displays whirring to life as they climb in, illuminated in the night. “It’s been a while.”

“Oh, did you miss me?” asks Peter, welcoming the distraction from the band of longing that’s clamping down around his chest. 

“I am merely stating a fact,” says Knight Rider. “It has been quite a bit longer than your previous non-driving intervals.”

“I think he missed us,” Gamora echoes with a smirk. 

“I’d miss us too,” Peter admits charitably. 

“Did you come just to tease me?” Knight Rider drawls. “Or would you like to go somewhere?” 

“Well, we think some other people miss us,” Peter says, more seriously. 

“And we miss them,” Gamora adds. “So we are going back to the Compound.” 

“Straight back?” Knight Rider asks. “No stops? No detours to see the second shallowest pond in southeastern Indiana?” 

“Hmm, that sounds interesting,” Peter teases. “Maybe we should do that.” Gamora gives him a look and he relents. “But we’re just gonna head back. Although—how long is the drive?”

“Approximately 14 hours and 31 minutes.” 

Peter sighs. “I miss the ship. We might need to stop for a night with a drive that long.” 

“Well, if you are not making any stops, I have a solution for that.”

Peter gives the dash a skeptical look. “Yeah? What’s that?” 

“This.” 

The next second, the car lifts up from above the tires, so suddenly that Peter and Gamora both throw their arms out protectively in front of each other. 

“Whoa! What the—?” Peter cuts off an excited gasp when he looks out the window, and suddenly sees sleek wings, somewhere between small airplane wings and the wings on the Milano, jutting out from both sides of the car. “Knight Rider! You can fucking fly?!” 

“When the occasion calls for it.” 

Gamora looks more impressed than surprised. “That is convenient.” 

“That is awesome!” Peter laughs happily. “A flying car!”

Gamora shakes her head with naked affection. “We live in a spaceship, Peter.” 

“Still!” 

“I am glad you approve,” Knight Rider says, and Peter’s sure he hears pride in his voice. “Are you ready for me to take off?”

“Yeah--wait, no!” he says quickly. “We can’t do this without tunes!” 

“Of course, Mr. Star-Lord. Any requests?”

He glances at Gamora, who smiles and shrugs. 

“Your choice!” Peter tells the car, feeling very generous. He pats the dash, then settles back in the seat, arm around Gamora. “Play us out, Knight Rider!” 

“Certainly, Mr. Star-Lord.”

The song starts and the car is in the air in a matter of seconds, much sooner than Peter would have expected. As they take off up and into the night, he laughs and kisses Gamora’s temple and sings along. 

_The mountain is high, the valley is low_  
And you’re confused on which way to go  
So I’ve come here to give you a hand  
And lead you into the promised land  
So come on and take a free ride 


	32. Chapter 32

Returning to the Compound takes only a few hours, which does absolutely nothing to help how surreal everything feels. The flight is so smooth that they might as well be in space. They _might_ as well be standing still entirely, were it not for Knight Rider projecting their flight path in a hologram that hovers just above his dash. 

They’ve been gone for weeks that feel like a lifetime, yet now it seems almost as though it’s been no time at all. 

“Wait!” Peter says abruptly, when the hologram is showing that they’re just a few minutes out from their destination.

Knight Rider sighs. “Yes, Mr. Star-Lord?”

“There’s one more thing we need to do,” says Peter, partly because he’s just remembered, but mostly because he’s feeling just a little _too_ much like it’s emotional whiplash to go straight from his grandpa’s to the Compound, a place that’s now indelibly linked with some of his worst memories.

“A detour?” says Knight Rider. “I never would have guessed.”

“We still need to try tacos,” Peter explains, mostly to Gamora, but also for the car’s benefit.

“Oh!” she exclaims. “Yes! We do.” 

“Tacos?” Knight Rider says, disbelieving. 

“Tacos,” Peter confirms. “We can’t leave Earth without trying tacos, Knight Rider.” 

“It is nearly midnight, Mr. Star-Lord,” Knight Rider says. “The only nearby location that serves tacos and is open at this time is Taco Bell… A fast food restaurant.”

“Sounds perfect!” Peter says, rubbing his hands together eagerly. 

“I did enjoy McDonald’s,” Gamora agrees. 

They look at the dash expectantly for a moment, as Knight Rider is silently judging them, he’s sure. Then finally he says, “I will never understand you. Rerouting.” 

Ten minutes later, they’re hovering outside the window of a mostly deserted Taco Bell with one wing pulled in so they have room, taking three massive bags of tacos from an employee who seems even more baffled by this turn of events than Knight Rider had been. 

“Bruh, are you flying?” the kid asks, sticking his head out the window to gape at the ground, which they are definitely not touching. 

“Hell yeah.” Peter grins. 

“Because someone was too dramatic to put the wheels back down,” Gamora adds. 

“Hey,” Peter protests. “I totally—“

“I was talking about Knight Rider,” she says. And then she actually fucking _winks_.

Peter is so delighted, he could practically float without any wings at all. He loves her so much it hurts. “Right! Right, of course. I knew that. Knight Rider, you are most definitely a diva.”

“I am a computer program,” says Knight Rider in his usually dry tone, not _quite_ actually devoid of emotion. “I do not do _drama._ ”

“Who was that?” the kid asks, gawking at the inside of the car now. 

“I am Knight Rider,” says Knight Rider. “I am an Artificial Intelligence program created by Mr. Tony Stark. I am most pleased to meet you.”

“He’s not,” says Peter. “He’s actually kind of an a-hole. And also a prude.”

“I am perfectly capable of speaking for myself, Mr. Star-Lord,” says Knight Rider. “And if you are going to comment on my current form, I did ask if you would be making any stops, and you said no. So do not mock me for your own indecision.”

“Damn,” says the kid, running a hand through his hair. “What was _in_ those brownies?”

* * *

By the time they’re on their second taco each, Knight Rider is back in car form and pulling into the same garage they’d found him in a couple weeks ago.

“I kinda expected you to land us on the roof,” Peter says, mouth still full because he’d insisted on finishing the last third of his taco in one bite. “Or do a few backflips through the air first or something.”

“Though I am capable of both,” Knight Rider says loftily, “I did not think the situation called for it.” 

“He just likes to tease you, Knight Rider,” Gamora says, finishing her taco much neater than Peter had, already reaching into one of the bags for another. 

“I am well aware, Ms. Gamora.”

“Hand me another one too,” Peter says, finally swallowing. Gamora grabs two of the hard shell ones this time and gives him one. 

“Perhaps we shouldn’t give any to the others after all,” she says, probably like eighty percent joking. 

Peter nods in agreement, peeling back the wrapper. “We’ll probably have to wake ‘em up anyway. Might as well just eat ‘em all ourselves.”

“You ordered two dozen tacos,” Knight Rider points out. “Not to mention several other items of questionable quality.” 

“Oh ye of little faith!” says Peter, feigning offense. “Do you mean to imply that you don’t believe Gamora and I are capable of eating a dozen tacos each?”

“I could eat _two_ dozen easily,” says Gamora. “All on my own.”

“I know you could,” he says, expression and voice full of adoration. Then he thinks about that for a second. “That’s not a challenge, though! I want some too. And so will the others, I bet.”

“I could, though,” she says, pouting a bit.

For a moment Peter is struck by how achingly familiar that playful tone is, and how much of a contrast it is from the last time they were here, just a few weeks ago. He remembers her sitting lost at the table, pale and shivering, panicked over the sight of soup and struggling to enjoy anything at all. That image sends a chill through him, like an icy ghost reaching out from Vormir.

“Peter?” Gamora prompts, her hand suddenly on his thigh, taco temporarily forgotten. “Are you okay?”

Even with her voice and the contact of her hand, it takes him a bit to ground himself. He stares at her, heart racing, waiting for her to somehow be taken from him again, for her to disintegrate or for all of this to disappear, and then he’ll find himself back in their quarters on the Benatar by himself, clutching her sword and sobbing into a pillow that still smells like her. 

But she’s still here, alive and well and happy, if a little concerned right now. She says his name again and he shakes himself. “Sorry. I’m fine.” 

She gives him a look, reminding him without words of his promise to tell her these things. He takes a beat before speaking. “I was just thinking about the last time we were here…It was only a couple weeks ago. It seems so far away.” 

“Yes,” she says softly, rubbing his thigh. The look on her face is so tender it nearly overwhelms him. “And you have done so much for me in those weeks.”

“Yeah.” Peter doesn't deny it, doesn't protest, but he does run a hand through his hair. “But you've done just as much for me. More. Hell, everything you've done for me in just the past few days is--it's _so much,_ Gamora.”

She nods. “We took the trip to get better. We are better than when we began.”

“And now we have returned,” Knight Rider interjects, having long since come to a stop. “So unless you are planning to tell me that you actually _do_ want me to turn around and take you to see the ninth largest ball of string in the country, this is where we part ways.”

“Oh,” says Peter, as it suddenly occurs to him that the car is right -- it's not like he'll be coming home with them. And despite all the teasing, all of the bickering, he's surprised by a wave of sadness at the thought of leaving him. He's always felt a sort of kinship with certain inanimate objects -- his Walkman, for sure, and his ships. Knight Rider filled that oddly shaped void, he realizes only now. 

He turns to Gamora, trying to keep his tone casual when he asks, “Think Stark would notice if we just took this car with us?” 

She gives him a fond smile. “Yes. Besides, we owe Stark enough as it is. We can’t steal his car.” 

He sighs heavily and pats the dash, gentler than he had before. “Well, buddy, I guess you’re just gonna have to miss us, huh?”

“I suppose so, Mr. Star-Lord.” 

“Hey.” Peter grins. “You didn’t deny it!”

“Do not make me regret it.” 

“Perhaps Stark will let us borrow you the next time we visit Earth,” Gamora says wistfully. Peter’s not surprised that she’s grown fond of Knight Rider too.

“I am confident that he would,” Knight Rider says. “Next time I insist on taking you to an actual taco restaurant. I have no taste buds, but according to my knowledge of tacos, which is all available knowledge of tacos, these are far from the best Earth has to offer.”

“It’s a date.” Peter says. 

“If you say so, Mr. Star-Lord.”

Peter doesn’t move quite yet, reluctant to actually say goodbye to something that’s become like a friend, despite being artificial. But eventually Gamora says, “We should take these tacos inside. The others deserve to try them.” 

“Wow,” says Peter, mainly for the distraction. “ _You_ being generous with food?” He shades his eyes and pretends to look out the window, though the lighting is pretty dim inside the garage. “What? Was that a flying pig?”

He’s still looking out the window but he can _hear_ the eyeroll in Gamora’s tone. “Don’t tempt me, Peter.”

He hardly hears her, though. Even though he was looking out the window purely in jest, his attention is caught by approaching movement. “Hey! It’s Groot!”

Sad goodbyes forgotten, he’s out of the car and on his feet without another thought. Groot is running across the garage toward them, the fastest Peter’s seen the kid move in a _long_ while. Behind him are Drax and Mantis, with Rocket lagging a few steps more. 

“Hi, bud!” he says warmly as Groot approaches -- and promptly runs right past him. Turning, he realizes that Gamora has climbed out of the car too, and now has Groot’s vines wrapped around her in an ecstatic hug. They both look so happy, he can’t even be upset.

He pretends though, says jokingly, “Nice to see you too, little man,” as he watches Gamora hug Groot tightly. 

“I am Groot,” he says, muffled into her stomach. 

“I missed you too,” she whispers, stroking the vines on top of his head. It’s almost identical to the way they’d hugged when Gamora had come back from the Stone, and for a second Peter’s swimming in those memories again. 

Until Drax’s booming voice shouts right next to his ear: “Quill! Gamora!” before he’s wrapping him up in a bone-crushing hug that lifts his feet off the ground. “You have returned!”

“Whoa, whoa, hey.” Peter laughs breathlessly, patting Drax on the back. “Yeah, we have. We missed you too. All of you,” he adds when Mantis joins the hug at a run, knocking him back _down_ onto his feet. 

“We all missed each other!” Mantis wails, antennae aglow, tears of joy immediately springing to her eyes. 

Rocket, standing about as close as he can be to them without actually participating in the hug, snorts. “They called us like every day to shower us in their sap.” 

“They only called us one time!” booms Drax. “I am certain that the rest of the time they were busy with s--”

“Sightseeing!” Peter interrupts, knowing Drax’s propensity to talk about sex. Particularly sex that other people are having. It’s not like he isn’t totally accustomed to it by now, but he still has the distinctly Terran instinct to direct that particular subject away from Groot’s ears.

“Yes,” Gamora agrees, her cheeks darkened with a familiar flush. “Seeing lots of sights! Such as the cryptid museum we sent pictures of. And the souvenir shop where we called you.”

“Yeah, yeah,” says Rocket. “You came all the way across the galaxy to buy some junk to chain the keys you don’t have. Totally worthwhile.”

“We also brought you tacos,” says Peter, reaching back into the car and pulling out one of the bags.

Rocket sniffs it without moving any closer, the change in him subtle but unmistakable. Try as he might to pretend otherwise, he definitely wants the food inside. “Fine. We gonna eat in the garage or can we go inside first?”

“Not until we get the rest of our hugs!” Peter exclaims, holding his arms wide open. Groot, who’s finally let go of Gamora, shakes his head but quickly walks around the car to hug him with the kind of enthusiasm he hasn’t felt from him for a while. Peter grins and soaks up the hug for a few seconds before starting to rock him back and forth, nearly lifting Groot off the ground like a Drax hug. 

Groot groans playfully and rolls his eyes, still hugging him. “I am Groot.”

“I’m okay with being a dork sometimes,” Peter says. Gamora, now squished in a Drax and Mantis hug, winks at him again. 

“Come on, Rocket,” Peter says, stilling but not letting go of Groot. “No eating until you join in.”

Rocket crosses his arms. “You can’t be serious.”

“Oh, but I am,” Peter insists, holding out one of his arms. 

“I am Groot.”

“Ugh.” Rocket rolls his eyes more dramatically than Groot. “Fine. For the food.”

Then Rocket is somewhat awkwardly joining the hug, basically hugging their legs, but he and Groot both put a hand on his back and he hugs them for two seconds longer than Peter was expecting. 

Rocket shakes himself when they let go. “Okay, sheesh, can we go inside now?”

Without waiting for them to answer, he starts walking back towards the Compound’s main building.

“Yeah, yeah,” Peter mutters, releasing Groot. He glances back at the car, its doors still open. 

The others, including Gamora, are looking at him expectantly. So he turns back to the car and quickly pulls out the bags, handing them off so that each of them is carrying something, an unspoken team agreement. Then he goes back to the front of the car and sticks his head inside it.

“Knight Rider?”

He’s met with silence, all of the car’s systems conveniently shut down now. He’s absolutely certain that was a choice, and that the AI can still hear him on some level, maybe even from some other piece of tech in this garage.

“Come on, Knight Rider, you’re really not gonna say a final goodbye?” he prompts, though the idea makes his heart beat a little bit faster.

Only silence in response, probably the car sulking because it’s so sad to see him leaving.

“Okay, Buddy,” Peter goads. “If you don’t say anything, I’m going to take it to mean that you’re crying over how sad you are to see me, your new best friend, go.”

There’s _still_ nothing after that, so he sighs and closes the door maybe a bit harder than actually necessary.

“Maybe he has some kind of automatic shut off,” he says to Gamora, as he takes her hand. He’s definitely not pouting at all. 

“I am sure he does,” she says, squeezing his hand. 

“Still seems like he could’ve turned back on,” he mutters. 

“You were probably right that he didn’t want to say goodbye,” she says. “He will miss us.”

“Yeah.” Peter gives one look back at the car, though he knows it’s off. “Well, bye anyway, Knight Rider.”

Just as he’s about to turn around, the headlights flash briefly on and off. He grins. 

“Goodbye,” Gamora says, smiling too. She turns back to him. “I told you.”

“Yeah, yeah,” he says, feeling much better, even if it wasn’t quite the goodbye he’d expected. “Let’s get going before the others eat all our tacos.”

When they find others in the Compound’s main living area, the scene is about what Peter expected. The contents of the Taco Bell bags have already been upended on the coffee table, and Rocket is unwrapping every single one of them to examine the contents. Drax has a soft shell one half stuffed into his mouth. Groot is ignoring the food and is rooting around in one of their bags while Mantis watches on. 

“Whoa, dude, what are you doing?” Peter says, hurrying over.

“I am Groot!”

“We will give all of you your presents after we eat,” Gamora says sternly. 

“If you keep digging in there,” says Peter, “you’re gonna find stuff that will embarrass your mother. You know, like underwear...” 

It’s not true, but it definitely works as Groot practically throws the bag down. He turns a triumphant smile toward Gamora, certain she’s going to be astounded by the awesomeness of his parenting skills. She just shakes her head, though. 

“We are in nice accommodations with nice food,” Gamora says to the group. “Can we pretend we’re civilized for five minutes and sit at the table?”

Rocket grumbles predictably, but they all fall in line, sitting on the floor around the table and passing the tacos around so that each of them ends up with a couple. 

“Wow,” Peter murmurs to Gamora as they go to join the rest. “That was really hot.”

She shrugs, but he doesn’t miss her smile. He also doesn’t miss the fact that she’s regained her confidence, her easy maternal and leadership instincts; the place in this family they’ve all been holding until she was ready to occupy it again.

“Why is the outside of my taco a different color than everyone else’s?” Mantis asks curiously. 

“Oh!” Peter says. “That’s something called a Dorito Taco. It sounded kinda cool so I got a few. There’s some other stuff in there too.” 

“I want an orange taco!” Drax exclaims with his mouth full. 

“So grab one,” Rocket says. “Yeesh.” 

Peter and Gamora settle on one side of the coffee table, close enough that their sides are pressed together. Groot, focus now split between his food and his video game, scoots closer to Gamora when she sits down. He’s clearly trying to be subtle about it, so neither of them say anything, but their smiles both grow. 

“How come you guys are still up anyway?” Peter asks, digging into some kind of nacho concoction that they’d also ordered. “We figured we’d have to wake you up.”

“We were waiting for you!” Mantis says excitedly. “We wanted to see you as soon as we could!”

Peter’s heart melts, even when Rocket rolls his eyes and says, “ _I_ wanted to sleep, but you try getting any shut eye with a buncha morons chattering around you.” 

“Yes,” says Gamora, completely ignoring Rocket. “But how did you know we were on our way back at all? Did Peter message you?”

Peter blinks, realizing he’s completely overlooked that question, assuming _she’d_ done it. “No! I didn’t. How _did_ you know?”

“Your car told us!” says Mantis, who’s currently using a fork to scoop out and eat her taco’s filling. 

Drax has his head tipped back and is holding a taco above it, pouring the contents into his mouth by shaking the shell. He nods, which makes some of the meat and cheese fall onto his face. He laughs uproariously at that, wipes a hand over his face, then licks the food off. “Yes! Also I like this concoction! It is like a spoon made out of food.” He chomps down on the taco shell, eating it in two bites.

“Knight Rider, you sneaky bastard,” says Peter.

“I am Groot!” says Groot, tone full of disapproval.

“Since when do _you_ get to comment on anyone’s language?” asks Rocket.

“I am Groot!”

Rocket groans in exasperation. “Yeah, _we_ can comment on _your_ language, you’re the kid! And you’re a damn potty mouth!”

Groot gestures to him in exasperation and Peter bursts out laughing. Not because it’s funny, though he does find it funny -- he’s just overflowing with so much love and affection for these ridiculous people that he can’t keep it in. 

He reaches out to tousle the vines on Groot’s head. Groot bats at his hand with a confused, “I am Groot?”

“We missed you guys,” Gamora answers for him. Peter would be willing to bet she’s feeling the same way as him, judging by her smile and the way she throws her arm around Groot’s shoulders. 

“We missed you too!” Mantis says loudly, crunching on a taco shell. 

Rocket groans. “Haven’t we had enough sap for one day?” 

“Not quite!” Peter says gleefully. Everyone’s mostly finished stuffing themselves with food, except for Mantis with her taco shell, and Rocket who’s inspecting one of those ‘crunchwrap’ things suspiciously. He figures that’s close enough, though; he’s more impatient than Groot about this sometimes. “We still have to give you guys your presents!” 

“I am Groot!” says Groot, sounding much more pleased and interested now.

“I don’t know,” Gamora teases. “Do you think we’re ready for that? Maybe we should clean up the table first.”

“Oh, right, right,” says Peter. That would never have occurred to him, of course, but he is _not_ about to undermine Gamora on this one. Plus they probably do owe Stark at least some courtesy at this point. “You should definitely clean up the table first.”

“ _We_ should?” asks Rocket. “What about you idiots?”

Peter shrugs innocently. “We brought the food…”

“He’s right, Peter,” says Gamora, neatly balling up her last taco wrapper and putting it back into one of the now-empty bags. “We should help as well. That is only fair.”

“We brought the food!” Peter protests. “If you provide the food, you don’t help clean up. That’s just the rules.”

“I am _Groot!_ ” Groot interjects loudly, then sweeps his vines across the table, clearing the surface of it by knocking everything to the floor. Then he crosses his arms and gives them all a self-satisfied look. “I am Groot.”

“Groot, you little shit!” Rocket growls. 

Groot smirks, unaffected by that… Until he catches Gamora’s eye. She just stares at him; she’s not even glaring, or saying a word, she just gives him this Look until he huffs and uncrosses his arms. 

He makes a displeased noise, but he picks up another empty bag and starts petulantly shoving trash into it. 

“Ha!” Peter says triumphantly. Then Gamora turns her look on him and he frowns. “Oh, come on!”

“Peter,” she says warningly. 

“Ugh. Fine.” He grabs a bag and starts doing the same thing. Then they’re all helping out, most of them grumbling all the way, even though in the end it takes less than a minute. Although, Peter maintains that Drax’s way of “helping” -- shoving whatever scraps of food he finds into his mouth -- doesn’t count. 

“I am Groot?” 

“Yes,” Gamora says with a fond, exasperated sigh. “ _Now_ presents.”

“I’ll get ‘em,” Peter says. He’s about to get up, but then Mantis yells and holds her hands out. 

“Wait! What about _your_ presents?” 

“I said I was getting them,” says Peter, assuming that she means presents _from_ them. Mantis has come a long way in four years, but she still carries the consequences of her past isolation, and sometimes that includes using pronouns in odd ways or misunderstanding the intricacies of a group conversation. 

“No!” she insists, practically throwing her whole body in front of him to prevent him from getting up, as though he might be about to dive into battle rather than just go fetch a bag of souvenirs.

“Okay, okay!” Peter holds his hands up in surrender. “I won’t go get them.”

“I am Groot,” says Groot, definitely pouting.

“We will accept their gifts _later_ ,” says Mantis. “First we must present them with _their_ presents.”

Peter snorts at the unintended pun, then realizes from her bewildered expression that she has absolutely no idea why that was funny. “You--you’re gonna _present_ us with presents? Get it? _Pre_ sent with--” He breaks off and shakes his head when it’s still clearly not coming across. “Nevermind. You got us presents?”

“Your wedding gifts!” says Mantis, confusion forgotten again in an instant. “A treasured Terran tradition!”

“You did ask for them,” says Drax.

“I was joking!” Peter says. Rocket scoffs. “Okay, half-joking.”

“Where are they?” Gamora asks Mantis; her attempt at subtlety is worse than Groot’s. Peter knows she’s just as eager to see what the presents are as he is, probably moreso. 

“I will go get them!” Mantis says, then runs out of the room.

“Seems like a dumb tradition,” Rocket mutters. “Getting presents just because you said I love you in front of a stranger.”

“It’s celebrating love!” Peter tells him. Gamora takes his hand under the table and he grins. 

Rocket curls his lip, but it’s not entirely convincing. Like Nebula, Peter knows Rocket is happy for them too. 

“It is a beautiful tradition!” Drax declares. “But your Terran wedding gifts are very strange.”

“What do you mean?” Peter asks skeptically. 

“We looked it up,” Rocket says. “What Terrans usually get each other on this so-called special occasion.”

Drax nods. “And there were no weapons of any kind on the list.”

“Yeah, dude,” Peter says, like it’s obvious. He has no idea what a ‘traditional’ Terran wedding gift is, but he’s not surprised that it doesn’t involve weapons. He’s also not surprised that Drax is disappointed by this. 

“What good are gifts that you cannot use to kill people?” asks Drax, looking around the room like he expects unanimous agreement. 

“I am Groot!” says Groot, gesturing to his game.

“Or pretend to kill people!” Drax amends.

“I dunno,” says Peter. “Sometimes I also like things that taste good or look cool. Oh! Or that have good tunes on them. I know you know there’s more to life than killing, dude.”

“Your gifts!” says Mantis, coming into the room dragging a box that’s nearly as big as she is. 

“Mine first!” says Drax, bounding to his feet though he was criticizing the tradition not two seconds earlier. 

Mantis wilts at being upstaged, and Peter quickly adds, “That just means we’ll be looking forward to yours even more!” She perks right back up. 

“Here it is!” Drax pulls out something that looks like a weirdly-shaped bowl on a stand. Inside of the bowl is a roll of bright red paper with what Peter’s pretty sure are Christmas trees printed on it.

“Um,” says Gamora, looking at the paper. “What is it?”

Drax looks at Peter expectantly. “The list said to decorate the wedding gifts with ‘wrapping paper.’ So that is what we did!”

Peter presses his lips together to keep from laughing; it’s sweet that he tried. “Usually that goes around the outside.”

Drax tilts his head, pulls out the paper and frowns at it. 

“It’s good there too though!” he adds hastily. 

“What is the actual--object?” Gamora asks, thoroughly distracting Drax. He drops the paper and hands them the thing. 

“I don’t know!” he says gleefully. 

Rocket sighs. “It’s called a blender. That’s all I know.”

“Oh!” Peter says, taking it and examining it. Gamora peers into it curiously. “I know, then; it’s used to chop up food real small.”

“Yes, it has blades in the bottom!” Drax announces. “That is why I chose it. Something from both of our traditions.”

“That is very sweet,” Gamora says sincerely. “Thank you.”

“Yeah, dude, really,” Peter says. He puts the blender on the coffee table. “It’s gonna go in a place of honor in the kitchen.” He has no idea what they’re gonna do with it, but at the very least it’ll be decoration. 

“Now mine!” Mantis says, taking another gift out of the box and holding it out for them eagerly. She, at least, decorated the outside, although not completely: her gift is a set of small towels -- _tea towels_ , according to the label -- that’s wrapped rather excessively in pink ribbon. 

“I love the ribbon,” says Gamora, taking that one from her. It takes her nearly a full minute to unravel it, but Peter is definitely not complaining about the way he gets to watch her fingers work. 

“I thought you could put them in your hair!” says Mantis.

“Oh,” Gamora says. “How thoughtful.” The ribbon is far more gaudy than anything she’d normally put in her hair, but she takes it anyway and ties her curls up into a loose ponytail, then poses for Mantis with a bit of a flourish.

“You are _so beautiful_ ,” says Mantis, staring at her wide-eyed. Peter nods in agreement, flicking his fingers over the ribbons to watch them bounce. 

“Thank you,” Gamora says sincerely, then takes the towels and shakes them out for Peter to see. 

They have a pretty floral design embroidered on them, definitely something Gamora would be drawn to. But they also have the monogrammed initials ‘AA.’ He suppresses a confused frown at that. 

“I got you the letter A ones!” Mantis says proudly. “Because you have told me that letter means ‘The Best’ on Terra.”

“That’s true,” Peter says, only laughing a little. He’s pretty sure that’s not what the person who made the towels meant, but it is true.

Rocket snorts. “It also stands for A-holes. _A_ buncha _A_ -holes.”

Drax laughs uproariously and Mantis frowns, her antennae wilting again. 

“We love it!” Peter assures her instantly, laying the towels down on the table. “And the ribbon! Gamora does look beautiful in it, not that that’s a surprise.”

Mantis brightens up. “I am glad!”

“I am Groot,” he sighs, playing his video game again. 

“We are not being mushy,” Peter says. “I’ll show you mushy.” He kisses Gamora on the cheek, exaggerated and sloppy just like he’d done to tease Nebula the other day. 

Gamora laughs. “ _Peter_.”

It works immediately. Groot makes a face and groans, and Rocket rolls his eyes. “Unbelievable.”

“I am Groot.”

“Of course we want to open your present,” Gamora says, patting Groot’s shoulder. “Mantis?”

Mantis hands over a decent-sized rectangular present, this one wrapped properly -- though messily -- in light green wrapping paper with cartoon animals all over it.

“Oh, you did such a good job!” says Peter. He means it sincerely -- not that he’s loved the others’ presents any less for not being wrapped traditionally -- but he sees immediately that Groot’s reluctant to acknowledge the compliment. Another symptom of adolescence Peter _really_ can’t wait for him to outgrow.

“I am Groot,” he says dismissively.

“Yeah, I know we’re just gonna rip it off,” says Peter. “But I still appreciate that you did this for me.” 

He takes more care than he otherwise would to open up just one edge of the paper, and slides out what turns out to be a long, flat box. The colorful pictures on it and the words _Candy Land_ are like a punch to the gut, immediately overwhelming him with nostalgia. He remembers playing this game with his mom, first at home and then later in a lounge at the hospital. He remembers telling Groot about it too, months ago, in a conversation about videogames versus board games.

Gamora gasps quietly when she sees it, because of course he’s told her about it too. “Oh, Groot,” she whispers.

“That was not on any list of wedding gifts,” Drax informs them. “I told him he shouldn’t get it!”

Groot glares at him. “I am Groot.”

“It is not better than a blender!” Drax protests. “There are no blades anywhere in that game!”

“I _love_ it!” Peter says before the argument can escalate. He leans around Gamora to meet Groot’s eyes. “Seriously, bud.”

“I am Groot,” he says, shrugging. If his species could blush, Peter is sure he would be right now. 

“It was not nothing,” Gamora says gently. 

“Not even close!” Peter says. She’s between him and Groot, so he can’t just lean over and hug him like he wants to. Instead he says, “Gamora, we gotta hug this kid.”

“I am Groot!” he groans, but Peter doesn’t miss the smile on his face when Gamora pulls him into another tight hug, and his arms actually come up and around Peter when he joins in, basically making a Gamora hug sandwich. 

He does roll his eyes, but that’s basically his default. 

“Where did you find this?” Peter asks, still hugging him.

“I am Groot,” he says, muffled into Gamora’s shoulder. It’s a testament to how good Peter’s gotten at speaking Groot that he can understand it anyway, with barely any tone and no facial expression visible.

“Hey, we went to Walmart too!” says Peter. “Did you see the Star Wars stuff? They had _so much_ of it!” 

“Yeah, yeah,” Rocket interrupts. “We saw it _on you_ at your sap fest of a wedding! Speaking of which, do you want your rings or do you wanna sit there all night?”

Peter releases them immediately. “Rings, please!” He holds out a hand, all at once practically vibrating with excitement the same way he was on their wedding day.

Gamora is a bit more graceful as she extricates herself from the hug, but she looks just as expectant.

Rocket shakes his head, but he stands up and takes a few steps closer and reaches into one of his many pockets. When he opens his palm, Peter sees two smooth, delicate rings, polished so well that they’re radiant in even this dim light.

“Oh, _Rocket_!” Gamora exclaims breathlessly.

“Don’t get too excited,” says Rocket. “They’re better than spending your units on some Terran crap that’ll just break. These’re from a piece of the Milano’s old thruster.”

He tips the rings into Peter’s palm. He could swear he can still feel the warmth of the Milano’s engine on them, despite the fact that that thruster hasn’t been part of the ship for years. After it had crashed on Berhert, they’d had to replace a lot of its parts, but he’d kept a few of the old ones around. He’s immeasurably glad he did. 

“They are beautiful,” Gamora says, delicately tracing one with the tip of her finger. 

“They are,” Peter agrees, swallowing. “Thank you, Rocket.” 

“Yeah, yeah,” he mutters. “Don’t make a big thing of it, they’re just some hunks of metal I melted down.”

Peter ignores that, taking the smaller of the rings between two of his fingers and holding it out towards Gamora. “Can I put it on for you?”

“Yes,” she says quickly, eagerly. “Please.” She holds her hand out -- which makes Peter realize that he has no idea what finger he’s supposed to put it on. 

After a few seconds of him staring blankly at Gamora’s hand, Rocket sighs and points to one of her fingers, the one next to her pinky. “Stark said that’s the one the ring goes on.”

“Wait,” says Peter. “You asked Stark for help?” It’s not like it’s any surprise -- he knows Rocket is far more invested in both this gift and their happiness than he’ll ever openly confess. Still, it’s a gratifying image, both of them putting aside their egos to make their wedding and its accompanying traditions possible.

“Of course I asked Stark,” says Rocket. “I had to know which fingers so I could pull your biometrics from the Benatar’s database. What did you think I was gonna do, make your all-important symbolic rings and _guess_ whether or not they’d fit? Please. What do I look like, an amateur?”

“You are not a professional jewelry-maker,” Drax interjects.

“I am a professional everything, because that’s what you morons _make_ me be,” Rocket grumps.

Peter clears his throat and turns his attention back to Gamora. “I’m going to put this on you now.”

“Please do,” she agrees, her gaze still filled with tender affection.

“Oh!” Mantis squeals. “It’s like we get to be there for the wedding after all!”

“They are already married,” Drax points out. 

As much as he loves them all, Peter blocks them all out for the moment, focused completely on his wife. He shifts slightly so he’s sitting facing her, and he sets his ring down on the table so he can have a hand free to hold hers. 

She’s already wearing a ring on the finger Rocket had indicated, and Peter is prepared to just put this one on next to it, but she surprises him by taking that one off. She puts it on another finger instead, and at his questioning look says, “This ring deserves a special place.”

“It--it does,” he says, swallowing and trying not to cry already when he carefully holds her hand in his. The breath he takes is shaky, so overwhelmed with emotion he can feel it in his chest, but his fingers are completely steady when he slips the ring onto hers. 

“You’re my wife,” he whispers, kissing the back of her hand before letting it go so she can grab his ring too. Rocket makes a disgusted noise, which he tunes out. 

“I am,” she agrees, her smile radiant. 

She picks up his ring and rolls it over in her fingers a few times, apparently marveling at the smooth shine. 

“It’s so much bigger than mine,” she says, putting the tip of one of her fingers through it.

“Quill is easily ten times your size,” says Drax, as if that should be obvious.

“Whoa, hey!” Peter protests, giving him a horrified look. “That’s like--not even physically--How would I fit on the ship if I was _ten_ times her size?”

“The ship is far more than ten times her size,” Drax points out.

“Look, I know I’m bigger than her,” says Peter. “But not that much. And besides, she could lift me over her head like it was nothing. She _did_ do that.”

“That is a much better wedding ritual than exchanging rings!” Drax booms.

“Okay,” says Peter, not bothering to specify that it wasn’t actually part of the wedding. “But we are exchanging rings now, so let’s finish doing that.”

“Sorry,” says Gamora, though she’s suppressing a laugh. She holds the ring out again. “Do I put it on the same finger you did mine?”

“You should put it on _his_ finger,” says Drax.

“Yes,” Peter says, offering his left hand and ignoring that. 

Gamora slips the ring on smoothly, then kisses his hand the same way he kissed hers.

“Now we have all of our traditions,” she says softly, her eyes sparkling.

“We do,” says Peter, and kisses her.

“I am Groot?” says Groot, after a few seconds. 

Peter breaks away and shakes his head fondly. “Yes, okay, _now_ you can really have your presents.”

* * *

“We have _got_ to get one of those things for the ship!” Peter exclaims. He closes the door to their room with his foot as the robot who’d brought them the tray of food he’s now holding trudges away. 

Gamora laughs from the bed, pushing herself upright. “A breakfast in bed robot?”

“Yeah!” he says. “How awesome would that be? And look what came with it!” He indicates the thin vase on the tray, with a single pink flower sticking out of it. 

“Oh,” she says admiringly. “That’s lovely.”

He sets the tray up carefully over her lap, taking more time adjusting it than he needs to. He always wants to pamper her, especially the past few weeks, but the urge has skyrocketed since being back in this room. Coming back to it last night, it was impossible not to remember the state Gamora had been in the last time they were here. Or even worse, those few hours of being in here by himself, knowing he had one shot at getting her back. 

Now in the light of day, it’s easier to shove those thoughts back. He can look at her clearly and see the differences these few weeks have made. She’s healthy, she’s supporting herself easily, no sign of trembling at all. Her hair is sleep disheveled and gorgeous, and there’s a smile on her face as she goes right for the bacon. There’s even a ring on her finger now. 

“What?” asks Gamora, her mouth half-full. She meets his eyes as she chews, which is equal parts hot and a little unnerving since he’s not sure he wants her to know what he’s thinking. The last thing he wants is to ruin her happy morning with a reminder of what she’s been through. 

“Well,” says Peter, coming up with another thought quickly, “You appear to be eating yourself, Mrs. Bacon.”

She swallows and feigns a gasp. “Oh no! Only _you_ are allowed to eat me. And only in very specific ways.”

Peter snorts, then laughs openly, surprised and delighted by that response. He allows himself to climb back onto the bed finally, settling carefully next to her so he doesn’t upset the tray.

“Seriously, though,” says Gamora, fixing him with that look again. “What were you thinking about? Because I know you, and it wasn’t that.”

He sighs, deciding he might as well be honest. “Just--thinking how much better you look.”

“Compared to the last time we were here?” she says, not really a question. “I was thinking about that too.” 

“You were?” he’s asks. He’s not sure why he’s surprised that he’s not the only one reminded of that. It makes sense, given where they are. 

“Yes,” she says simply. “Well, not so much about myself but—you. How well you took care of me, everything you did for me. Everything you’ve done for me since.” 

“You’ve done just as much—“ he gets out, before Gamora covers his mouth with her hand. 

She’s smiling affectionately and shaking her head. “I am telling you I am grateful to you. Accept the compliment.” 

He nods, her hand still over his mouth. He even manages to only think fleetingly of when she’d done this same thing on the Benatar before—everything. 

She’s about to take her hand off his mouth when he darts his tongue out to lick her finger. 

“Peter!” she laughs, pulling her hand back. 

“Mmm, bacon,” he says, chasing after her fingers with his mouth. 

“Get your own,” she says, grabbing a piece and shoving it at his mouth. 

“Oh, is that the secret key to your food?” he asks, taking the bacon in his hand but not eating it yet. “All I have to do is lick you and you’ll share?”

“Peter…” she sighs. 

“Does it work for chocolate too?” he asks. There’s none on this particular breakfast tray, because clearly Stark doesn’t understand the value of candy for breakfast, so he can’t test that theory directly, but still…

“No,” says Gamora, eating another piece of bacon.

“What about fruit?” he presses, because there _are_ some strawberries on the tray. He doesn’t wait for her response, instead leans in and nips at the side of her neck, runs his tongue along the shell of her ear.

Her body jerks at the contact, but she’s so damn graceful that she doesn’t even upset the tray. He’s really not worried about that at all, so he keeps going, making exaggerated chewing noises as he nibbles at her neck.

“ _Peter!_ ” she practically squeals, then abruptly goes still at a knock on the door.

“Whoa there, lovebirds!” comes Stark’s voice from the other side of the door. “Should I come back later?” 

“No!” Gamora yells instantly. “We weren’t--doing anything.” She groans and hides her face in her hands. 

Peter, poorly suppressing laughter, rolls off the bed. “Coming!” Gamora smacks his side and he laughs out loud. “I mean I’m coming to the door, yeesh. Get your mind out of the gutter, babe.” 

She takes a pillow and smushes it over her face. 

When Peter pulls the door open, Stark is standing there looking thoroughly amused. He’s got what looks like a primitive holopad with him but he’s not using it, just holding it down by his hip. 

“Sorry to interrupt,” he says, not sounding sorry at all. 

“You were not interrupting anything!” Gamora yells. Peter turns to see that she’s taken the pillow off her face and is blushing furiously. He smiles dopily; she’s adorable when she blushes. 

“Yeah,” Peter agrees. “I wouldn’t have answered the door if you were _interrupting_.”

Gamora throws the pillow at him and he laughs as it hits him in the stomach. Meanwhile, she _still_ has the tray balanced perfectly level on her lap.

“Wow,” says Stark, his gaze following Peter’s “Roadtripping _does_ look good on you.”

“Hey,” says Peter, immediately suspicious. He holds up his left hand to display his new ring. “Married, remember? I know she’s amazing but don’t go getting any ideas about making a move on my girl.”

Stark rolls his eyes, fortunately good-naturedly. Then he points at himself. “ _Engaged_ , remember? Oh wait. No, you don’t, because you never asked.”

Peter blinks, taken aback. “Oh. Sorry. My bad. I just--”

“You love her,” Stark interrupts. “I get it. And I am _glad_ to see that you both found your trip therapeutic. Now, may I come in or should I, as I asked before, come back later?”

“Oh, right,” Peter says. He glances at Gamora, waits for her to nod, then steps back to make room. “Yeah, come on in.” 

Gamora has already pulled herself into a fully seated position, and she’s moving to lift the tray off her lap, presumably so she can get up, when Stark waves his hand dismissively. “You don’t have to get out of bed, we’re not in a business meeting.” He makes a face, shrugs. “Actually, I have video conferences with the board from bed all the time, so.”

Peter and Gamora just look at him for a moment before Peter says, “Uh, that’s nice?”

“It is,” Stark confirms. 

“Well, thank you,” Gamora says, “But I’d rather at least sit properly.” She moves the tray to the side so she can swing her legs over to sit on the edge of the bed. She’s wearing one of her exercise tank tops and stretchy pants, which is lucky; half the time she just wears one of his t-shirts to bed. 

“You’re always proper, babe,” says Peter, still feeling protective. Then he glances down at himself, remembers that he’s wearing a t-shirt and boxers, and shrugs. Ordinarily Gamora probably would have made him put real pants on to answer the door, but she was a little busy being embarrassed.

Oh well, he decides. Boxers should totally count as pants. And if Stark gets intimidated by his rockin’ bod then, well, so much the better. He sits next to Gamora and drops an arm around her shoulders, absolutely and totally casual. 

Stark rolls his eyes again, but he pulls out the chair from the small desk area and sits facing them. “So, headed back into space? Or wherever it is you live?”

“Yes,” says Gamora, calm and confident. “Later today. We have some -- business we need to see to. Other friends affected by Thanos.”

“Oh,” says Stark, looking like he probably hasn’t put much thought into how many other worlds might have been a part of this whole disaster. Which, fair enough. Peter can understand putting his own people first. “Right. Makes sense.”

“We would not have left without saying goodbye though,” Gamora adds. “We wanted to thank you for letting the others stay here for so long. And for everything you’ve done for us.” 

“Yeah,” Peter says quickly. “Thanks, man. You didn’t have to do all this.” 

“Yes, I know,” Stark says. “I’m amazing.”

If this were a couple weeks ago, Peter would have rolled his eyes, inclined to see this as an example of Stark’s trademark arrogance. But now he knows better, even sees something of himself in the behavior; Stark’s deflecting. 

Peter decides not to call him out on it, just lets him continue.

“I knew I’d have seen you at some point before you left,” he says, “but I wanted to catch you alone. I figured you would want an update on the Stones before you left. If your team hasn’t told you already.”

“They haven’t,” Peter says, tensing automatically. 

“Yes, please,” Gamora says calmly. Peter reaches out to take her hand where it’s resting on the bed and she turns to him. “If that is okay with you.”

“Yeah, of course,” he says. The Stones are far from his favorite topic of discussion, but it’s not like they can avoid talking about them forever. Much as he might want to. And if Gamora of all people can be so reasonable about it, then he’s going to suck it up and listen too. 

“Okay,” says Stark, and clears his throat. 

It’s clear that he’s not about to say _great news, we obliterated the Stones and now you never have to worry about them again!_ , but Peter can’t read his body language well enough to tell just how not-great the news is.

“So it turns out the problem is not _how_ to destroy the Stones,” he continues, after apparently considering his choice of words. “We came up with at least half a dozen different ways to smash them into smithereens.”

“But?” Peter prompts, because he knows that it’s coming.

“But it turns out that there’s a tiny little catch to that,” says Stark. “You know the Stones are older than our Universe, right? Well it turns out they’re like -- like anchors, I guess. Destroy them and you tear apart the fabric of reality. Fun, right? Fortunately Strange had one of his Magic Mushroom visions before we gave it a try.”

Peter’s heart sinks, too concerned about Gamora to even ask Stark what the hell a _Magic Mushroom vision_ is. He squeezes her hand and watches her face, prepared to hold her or perhaps promise to destroy the damn things anyway and build her a whole new universe, whatever -- anything that might comfort her after hearing this news. 

But her expression doesn’t change. She doesn’t even look _surprised_. She just nods once and says, “I wondered if that might be the case.”

“You did?” Peter and Stark ask at the same time. 

She shrugs one shoulder. “They exist for a reason.”

“Are you okay?” Peter whispers anyway. _He_ feels devastated and he’s not even the one who was trapped in one of those things. He’s had more than one fantasy about crushing the Soul Stone with his bare hands. 

“I’m fine,” Gamora assures him, squeezing his hand back. “Obviously I would prefer if they could be destroyed but...The important part is that Thanos is gone. And that we keep the Stones safe and prevent anyone like him from getting a hold of them ever again. I assume you’ve considered this?” she asks Stark. 

“Yeah, well, your sister actually solved that problem for us,” he says. 

At this, Gamora does look surprised. “How?” 

“Well,” says Stark, “first she broke into my lab in the middle of the night and held a knife to my throat.” He shakes his head, looking more exasperated than horrified, which seems about right for someone who isn’t _actually_ on Nebula’s kill list.

Gamora smirks. “That’s her way of saying hello.”

Stark sighs. “I gathered that. Is everyone in space so...stabby? I have to say, I would have expected you all to have, like, high tech energy weapons or something but just as many of you have swords, or hammers, or axes.”

“I have blasters,” Peter says quickly, thinking immediately of Thor.

“Swords are timeless,” says Gamora, but apparently isn’t about to be derailed from the actual topic of this conversation. “What happened after she put the knife to your throat?”

“And why were you in the lab in the middle of the night anyway?” Peter adds.

“Working on something to try to keep the damn Stones protected,” he says, like it should be obvious. 

“Oh,” Peter says, sort of taking Stark in properly for the first time this morning -- the heavy bags under his eyes, the slight slouch in his posture; the appearance of a person who has not been getting enough sleep. 

“Apparently Nebula thought I was still trying to destroy the things.” Stark shakes his head, like it also should have been obvious to _her_ what he was doing. “It’s a good thing I know your sister already, because I only got...a little concerned when she told me -- still holding a knife to my throat, mind you -- that _she_ was going to be taking the Stones.”

“She what?” Peter exclaims. 

Gamora’s eyebrows shoot up. “Did she think she would have a better chance of protecting them…?”

Stark sighs and says, “No. I guess she wanted...Have you heard of some people called Watchers?”

Peter opens his mouth to respond, but Gamora cuts him off -- by laughing. There’s definitely something a _little_ bit hysterical in it, but mostly just sounds delighted. Still, it goes on for an impressively long time, her shoulders shaking.

“Um,” says Stark. “Is your wife...all right?”

This time it’s Peter’s turn to snort, because all he can hear is Nebula’s voice in his head. _’I think your boyfriend is broken…’_

“I’m fine,” says Gamora, waving a hand and wiping at her eyes. “I’m fine. I just -- she _actually_ did it. In just a couple of days. Of course she did. Nebula is amazing.”

Stark sighs. “Look, I appreciate that I’m not a part of your inside jokes, but...did what?”

“Found the Watchers,” Peter supplies. “She’s been on the hunt for some information about Gamora’s time in the Stone--” He glances over at her, apprehensive about her response, but she just nods. “So she said she was going to find them and ask. And--I guess she did.”

“Well, that explains what information she was talking about,” Stark mutters. 

“How much did she tell you?” Peter asks, concerned about Gamora’s privacy. She doesn’t seem concerned though, still chuckling to herself every few seconds. 

“Almost nothing,” Stark says, sounding frustrated by this. “Which was damn aggravating when she expected me to hand over the most powerful objects in the universe to be watched over by, like, three people none of us had ever even met.”

“Oh,” Gamora says, sobering up. “The Watchers wanted to protect the Stones?”

“I thought their whole thing was non-interference,” Peter says. “That sounds pretty interfere-y.” 

“It sounded pretty shady,” Stark says, rubbing his forehead like he’s still irritated. “I told her she was insane.” 

Peter snorts. “Bet she loved that.”

Stark raises his eyebrows like _You have no idea_. Gamora glares at him until he clears his throat. “Yeah, well--long, long story short, we had a big ol’ group brain trust meeting about it. Turns out Thor has met a few of these people before--”

“Of course he has,” Peter mutters. 

“--And he thought it was a good idea,” Stark continues as if Peter hadn’t spoken. 

“I don’t know that I’d do something on the basis of _Thor_ thinking that it’s a good idea,” says Peter, still unable to completely shake off the defensiveness and dislike. He’s feeling better at least about his role within his own family, but that still doesn’t mean that he has to like Thor or the unpleasant events that surrounded his arrival in their midst.

“I’m a lot more inclined to believe Thor than some aliens I just met,” Stark points out. Then he continues before Peter has an opportunity to protest. “Besides, we had Strange verify. He used the Time Stone to look at the possible outcomes, and _that_ indicated it was a good idea too.”

“Great,” Peter says bitterly. “ _Two_ overpowered egomaniacs said you should do it. I feel much better.”

“And Nebula,” Gamora points out.

Peter considers that, then sighs. “Okay, fine. That _does_ make me feel better. But still.”

“We looked at this from every angle, dude,” Stark says, with an air of finality. “Anyway, it’s done. Nebula took the Stones yesterday. Well--not all of them.”

“No?” Peter asks, running a hand through his hair. He feels like his brain has whiplash, getting so much information he has no idea which direction to turn his focus to. 

“None of us liked the idea of handing off all the Stones to a single person, or group,” Stark explains. “No matter who they are. So Dr. Strangelove is keeping the Time Stone.”

“I think that is wise,” Gamora says, still astoundingly calm about all this. 

“Well,” Peter says slowly. “If Gamora thinks it’s smart, then so do I.” Which is true. He’d love it if the Stones were destroyed, if they could live the rest of their lives knowing they were gone for good, but as long as Gamora is satisfied with this, then that’s all he cares about. 

“Well I’m glad you approve,” Stark says tartly. “Because what’s done is done, and good riddance if you ask me. With a bit of luck, none of us will ever have to hear about the Stones ever again.”

“I think we should not tempt Fate,” says Gamora. “And simply be happy that for the moment, they are safe and Thanos is no longer a concern.”

Stark sighs, looking exhausted again. “Fair enough.”

It occurs to Peter that he really _hasn’t_ been very fair to Stark. Or Thor, or Strange, or...well. He has plenty of opinions about the Stones and how they ought to be handled, but the reality is, he wasn’t here. He chose to take care of Gamora and himself. He chose to walk away and trust that Stark and the others would take care of the problem, which they have. 

Peter clears his throat. “Thank you. For, you know. Figuring all of that out and stuff.”

“And for making our wedding possible,” Gamora adds. “And letting us use one of your cars. And quite a bit of Terran money.”

“For everything, basically,” Peter says. 

Stark waves them off. “You already thanked me for that. Say thank you with gifts.” He’s deflecting again, not difficult to tell, but Peter grins at his choice of words. He exchanges a look with Gamora, who nods. 

“Funny you should say that,” Peter says, standing up and grabbing one of their bags. He rummages through it until he finds what he was looking for. “We did get you a few of those.”

The first things he pulls out of the bag are a bobblehead baseball player, and a keychain from the Bonne Terre Mine with the name _Tommy_ emblazoned on it. It’s not from the America Village place because they didn’t think about it until later, but Peter figures it still counts. 

“Um...thank you?” Stark says, smirking as he takes them both. “Should I even ask?”

“It’s a keychain,” Peter says smartly, though he knows that’s not the actual question. “For keeping track of your keys. Terrans do that, I’ve heard.”

Stark blinks. “Right, but...Is the name a...You said you had a translator implant, right? Do you need me to run some diagnostics on it, or…?”

“That is your Terran Name,” says Gamora, clearly delighted.

“Your _Dumb_ Terran Name if you ask my crew,” says Peter, extra pleased because Gamora’s pleased. “We all chose them. Mine’s Patrick.”

Stark sighs and shrugs, apparently deciding to just accept the weirdness and take it in stride. “Okay. Thank you for including me, I guess.”

Gamora’s grin widens. “That’s not your real gift, though.”

“Hey!” Peter interrupts. “Don’t knock the keychains! That’s totally a real gift!”

She shakes her head. “Okay, that is not your _entire_ gift from us.”

“Better,” says Peter, as if this has been a very serious matter.

“Is it a mug?” Stark asks facetiously, but not ill-natured -- though Peter would not have been inclined to recognize that a few weeks ago. “An _I Heart NY_ T-shirt?” 

“No,” Gamora says, glancing at Peter. “Should we have gotten those?”

“No, he’s just being a dick,” Peter says, laughing because he’s also just messing around. 

“Maybe I actually wanted one of those,” Stark says. 

Peter ignores him, finally pulling a holopad out of the bag triumphantly, showing it to Stark with all the fanfare of a golden trophy or a valuable diamond. “This is the _rest_ of your present. We grabbed one of our extra holos off the Benatar last night.”

“We were not sure what else we could give you that you could not get yourself,” Gamora explains. “But we know that you enjoy technology, and we thought perhaps you could use this as an example to update yours.” She gestures to the one that he’s holding, then retracts her hands, seeming to regret it. “Not that yours is bad! Just--”

“Primitive?” Stark fills in, smirking. 

“Different,” Gamora says pointedly. “Either way, we thought you might like to study our technology. Even if you never choose to use it.”

Stark's expression softens. “Thank you. Really. I know this is very generous.”

“It's the least we can do,” says Gamora. “After all that you have done for us.”

Stark shakes his head and shrugs dismissively. “I told you not to worry about that. And now I'm going to do one more thing.” He holds out the tablet he brought with him, clearly offering it as a gift of his own. 

“What's this?” asks Peter, half expecting it to just be what it looks like, perhaps as proof that Earth's tech isn't primitive. 

“Well,” says Stark, “I have it on good authority that you like our movies and music. And that you might like to be able to access those things from space.”

Peter freezes right after he takes it. He stares between Stark and the tablet for a few breaths, almost afraid to touch it too much for fear of discovering it’s not real. “You mean…?” 

“Well,” Stark fills in, “after Nebula and I -- mostly me -- figured out how to tap Earth’s wireless network into yours, I decided to whip this up. It can access every database Earth has, for music, movies, TV shows, radio stations, podcasts, you name it.” 

Peter has no idea what a _podcast_ is, but all that other stuff makes his breath go shuddery. He gapes down at the tablet, though it’s completely blank now. 

Gamora’s hand rests on his shoulder. “Thank you,” she says vehemently. “This is an incredible gift.”

“Yeah, well, I’m incredible,” Stark says. 

Peter grins, allowing himself to feel the joy and reality of this. He hands the tablet off to Gamora and before he even really knows what he’s doing, he takes a big step and pulls Stark into a hug. 

Stark grunts like he might just have had the wind knocked out of him. But then he relaxes a bit, awkwardly patting Peter on the back a couple of times.

“Okay,” says Stark, when they separate. “Usually I’m not a hugger, but you’re basically an alien and I just gave you the best gift ever, so I’m gonna let it slide.”

“You’re welcome,” says Peter, offering his most obnoxious grin.

Stark shakes his head, his expression saying that he acknowledges he’s met his match and has some respect for that. “One catch. That thing has to be connected to your ship’s communications array, so it won’t work until you get back into space. Until then, you’ll have to stick with regular old television.”

“Thank you,” Peter says yet again, and then moves so that Gamora can shake Stark’s hand and walk him to the door.

“That was nice of him,” she says sincerely, when the door is closed. Then she grabs another piece of bacon off the tray and eats it like nothing in their world has just been rocked. “We should finish breakfast and then go check on the others. I’ll bet they have a lot of packing left to do.”

Peter studies her face, then nods. They have plenty to discuss and process still -- the news about the Stones, for one. And a whole lot of new music and movies, for another. But there will be time for that later. Right now, it’s time to go home.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Almost to the end! *shocked face emoji*


	33. Chapter 33

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Last chapter y'all here we go!!!

Though Peter’s seen Earth from space two times before now, this is the only time he’s ever been able to appreciate it. The first time he saw it was when he had just been abducted from it; by the time he’d gotten to look out a window, the planet was barely more than a blue speck. 

The second time was just a few weeks ago, when he was returning to it for the first time in thirty years. He’d had quite a few other things on his mind, though, so gazing at the Earth’s beauty wasn’t really high on his priorities list. 

Now, though… Now, he makes it a point to really take his home planet in. They’ve broken the atmosphere, and the angle they’re flying at makes it possible for him to just look out a side window at it. He’s really able to take it in now, in all its blue and green and white-cloud glory. 

For a minute, anyway. 

“Hey, idiot,” Rocket says, his harsh voice yanking Peter out of his reverie. “Are you paying any attention? The Quadrant’s dock is _that_ way.” 

“Clearly he was not paying attention,” says Drax. Peter is about to protest, but then he adds, “He was admiring his homeworld. There is no shame in that.”

“Uhhh, except there is if he gets us lost when we’re supposed to be goin’ _home_ ,” says Rocket.

“We’re not going to get lost,” Gamora interrupts. “I am navigating. That is my job.”

“When you are not stabbing things,” says Drax.

“When I am not stabbing things,” Gamora agrees. Her voice is full of affection, and it’s not immediately clear whether it’s for Drax or for stabbing. Probably both.

“I got it, I got it,” Peter says finally, shaking his head. Piloting a ship is something he could practically do in his sleep -- and okay, basically _has done_ in his sleep in the years before he had his crew. But he has to admit that he feels the tiniest bit rusty after a couple of weeks on Earth. And after having Knight Rider around to do all the work for him. Plus, the Benatar isn’t about to bicker with him. He’ll have to depend on Rocket for that.

Luckily Rocket is very dependable for that. 

“You shoulda let me do it,” he gripes. “Then you coulda been all moony over Terra as much as you want without steering us in the totally wrong direction.”

“I was like five feet off the path!” Peter argues. “And we’re totally fine, see?” He directs them expertly into the docking hatch that’s opened up in the side of the Quadrant. Before they go in, he waves up at the front of the ship, where Kraglin is piloting, though he knows he can’t see him. 

“See?” he tells Rocket, once the door closes behind them and he sets the ship down. 

Rocket rolls his eyes. “Congratulations, you flew for three flargin’ minutes without crashing.” 

“It was a very good landing!” Mantis says cheerfully. 

Peter points at her. “Thanks, Mantis!” 

Gamora shakes her head, already getting up out of her seat. “Come on,” she says, making a get up gesture with her hands. “We’re here. Quit your bickering and let’s go get our stuff.” 

“You say that like we can’t multitask,” Peter says, smiling at her. 

“Well, seeing as you’re still _sitting_...” Rocket mutters. 

Gamora offers an arm and Peter takes it, stumbling forward a bit at the force of her pulling him. She puts a hand on his shoulder to steady him and smirks. 

“I love you,” he says and kisses her forehead, fully aware that others are watching. 

Mantis lets out a tiny squeal, while Rocket feigns gagging and walks away. 

“Well that was effective,” Peter stage-whispers to Gamora. 

She rolls her eyes and he follows her and the others to collect their things. After that it's only a matter of walking out of the Benatar before they're inside the Quadrant's familiar hangar. Suddenly eager to see their quarters and the rest of their space, Peter moves briskly...until he realizes that Gamora isn't with him. She's still standing by the Benatar, taking things in. 

“Hey,” Peter says gently, doubling back to her. “You okay?”

She nods. “Yes. Just--had that feeling again. Like I never expected to be back here. Last time--Last time I saw this place, it was a ghost I had made.”

“Oh, Mora,” he breathes, wrapping his arm around her shoulders. It’s not like he had forgotten or hadn’t considered how much longer it’s felt for Gamora since she’s been back here, but it had slipped to the back of his mind in his eagerness to see their home again. “You made the hangar too?”

She nods and leans into him, arms crossed as she looks up at the Benatar. “Usually it was just our quarters, but I made the whole ship a few times. So I could pretend I was walking around it. Like perhaps it was merely early morning and I was the only one awake, and the rest of you would be coming out soon.”

“Sweetheart,” he says, a little choked up. 

“Hey.” She kisses his shoulder then smiles up at him. “This is a happy moment. I’m here.”

“You’re here,” he agrees. “You’re home.”

She tilts her head up, and he bends to close the slight distance for a kiss. The second his lips touch hers, they hear a voice behind them:

“Are you idiots going to stand there and make out for the rest of the night?” 

Gamora tears herself away from the kiss to turn so quickly that he’d be offended if the voice belonged to anyone else. As it is, he looks up to offer Nebula a shit-eating grin.

“Hi, Sis!” he says brightly.

Gamora doesn’t _quite_ run to her, but she closes the distance between them very quickly, in just a few strides. Then she envelopes Nebula in the most enthusiastic hug Peter thinks he’s ever seen. His heart melts at that, and for once he keeps his mouth shut, happy just to watch them together.

“I was wondering how long it would take you to notice my presence,” says Nebula, taking Gamora by the shoulders as they step apart a bit. Peter can’t tell whether the gesture is intended to prevent another surprise hug attack or stop her from going anywhere. Knowing Nebula, probably both.

“Well, I can always count on you to announce yourself,” Gamora counters. “Though I must say, I didn’t expect to find you here in person.”

“It’s because she missed me!” Peter grins. “I’d miss me too, Nebula, it’s okay.”

She gives him a withering look he’d grown used to after about a week of knowing her, but otherwise ignores him. She turns back to Gamora and says, “I was in the area. And I know you fools cannot manage without me for long.”

Peter’s fluent enough in Nebula-speak to translate that into _I did miss you_. Gamora catches the meaning too, judging by her smile and the way she squeezes Nebula’s shoulders. The two of them are holding each other in a kind of half hug, and Peter wishes his holo wasn’t buried in his bag somewhere so he could sneak a picture. 

He’s practically bouncing with happiness right now, mostly because he’s pleased that Gamora gets to see her sister, but _he_ also genuinely missed her. He’d grown to love Nebula as a sister-in-law long before he and Gamora were married, her frequent threats to sew his face to his genitals notwithstanding. 

“I am glad you came,” Gamora says softly. “Are you going to stay?”

“I will stay long enough to tell you what I learned from the Watchers,” Nebula hedges, reluctant as always to commit to anything that doesn’t involve torture or vengeance. 

Gamora considers this, then nods. “All right.” Then she turns away from Nebula, picks up the bag she’s discarded and starts out of the hangar again in the vague direction of their quarters.

Peter blinks, then does the same, having to jog a couple of steps to catch up with her. But he’s not as far behind as Nebula, who spends nearly a full minute gaping at them before darting around to block their path. Peter stops short, nearly running into her. Gamora, of course, is more graceful.

“What do you think you’re doing?” Nebula demands. She crosses her arms and glares both of them down.

“Going to our quarters,” Gamora says serenely. She takes another couple of steps forward, but Nebula refuses to yield.

“Did you hear what I said?” asks Nebula. “I have your information.”

“Yes,” Gamora agrees, stepping around her. “And I am going to our quarters.”

Peter grins as it suddenly hits him what she’s doing: If Nebula plans to leave as soon as she discloses the information, then Gamora is going to wait as long as possible to hear it.

He steps around her too, throwing his best casual look over his shoulder at her. “Yeah, we gotta put all this stuff away! Super important.”

“You are welcome to join us, of course,” Gamora calls without looking back. 

“Yeah!” Peter says enthusiastically. “We gotta give you your presents!”

Nebula practically growls, arms crossed petulantly. “I know what you’re doing. I am not falling for it.” 

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Gamora says mildly. She finally turns a corner down a new hall. Peter follows, and he glances back to wait for Nebula to round the corner as well. 

After they’ve made it about half way down the hall and she still hasn’t followed, he says, “I don’t see her.”

Gamora smirks. “That’s because she’s not there anymore.”

“...Oh?” Peter prompts. She seems very confident, and also very unconcerned.

“You’ll see.” She reaches down to hold his hand again, and he beams, letting it slip from his mind. 

“It was nice of her to come in person,” he says, rubbing his thumb over the back of her hand. 

“It was,” Gamora agrees. “Though do not let her hear you call her _nice_.”

“Please.” Peter snorts. “I’m not planning on getting stabbed.” 

“Good,” she says lightly. “Only I am allowed to stab you.”

Peter catches the toe of his boot on the floor and stumbles a couple of steps, turning to gape at her. “Um--”

Gamora grins back at him, one hand on her hip. “Let me guess. You find that hot?”

He feels himself flush immediately, and clears his throat. “Um. I...might? Not like--like _actual_ stabbing, just...you with a sword? Always sexy, babe.”

She shakes her head. “You’re weird, Peter.”

His grin turns dopey. “I know. And you love me.”

“I do,” she agrees, her expression still suggesting that it’s a little bit hopeless. 

He’s struck then by the change in her. A few short days ago, she was desperate for the information Nebula now possesses, would probably have been willing to drop everything and anything to have it. And now here she is, happy, playful even. Perfectly willing to wait for the answer if it means that she gets to spend more time with her sister.

“Hey,” says Gamora. “I have an idea. Do you still have the Yeti hats?”

“Of course,” says Peter, digging around in the souvenir bag for one. It’s a lot easier to find now that the others’ presents have been passed out.

Gamora gets an extra mischievous glint in her eye. “Put it on.”

“Okay!” he says, obeying immediately. Gamora reaches up to adjust it for him, pulling the tassels around so they’re visible. “How do I look?”

“Very handsome.” She pats his chest before turning to start walking again. 

“Is this some kind of weird foreplay thing you’re into now?” he teases, following her. “Not that I wouldn’t be into anything you wanted to do, of course. Do you want me to get some mittens too?”

“No, thank you,” she says, smirking and shaking her head. “I just think it will be amusing when Nebula sees it, because she’s going to be right--”

They round the corner of this hallway and Gamora stops in her tracks. Peter pauses next to her, watching her face fall when she takes in the empty hall. The door to their quarters is right there, closed the way they left it. It’s clear from Gamora’s frown that she expected to find Nebula here. 

“Maybe she’s with the others!” Peter suggests. 

Gamora purses her lips, then all at once her shoulders relax as she seems to remember something. “No.” She takes a few steps to reach their door and pushes it open.

Nebula is sitting on the edge of their bed, arms crossed, a triumphant smile on her face. At least, she’s smiling triumphantly for the half second it takes her to notice the changes to Peter’s appearance. At that, she promptly chokes on air, barking out an actual laugh before rearranging her face into a more characteristic scowl.

This time it’s Peter’s turn to waggle his eyebrows in triumph, shaking his head so that the tassels from the hat bounce around too. “Like my hat, Sis?”

Nebula practically sneers at that. “It’s fitting. Makes you look like an idiot. _More_ like an idiot.”

He does a little bow. “Why thank you! Also, good news: We got you one too!” 

He digs through the bag for another moment and pulls out the other hat. He makes a show of fluffing it, then moves lightning quick to reach over and put it on her head. Before she’s had a chance to react beyond a vague noise of surprise, Peter sits on the bed beside her, pulls out his holo, and snaps a picture of them in their matching hats. It’s possibly his most impressive heist ever.

Nebula looks maybe the most taken aback he’s ever seen her; she’s even forgotten to look murderous for a few seconds, long enough that she looks nothing but stunned in the picture. 

“Look!” he says proudly, showing Gamora. “We look pretty cute, huh?”

“Cute?” Nebula’s lip curls. 

Gamora takes in the picture, then looks back at the real them, her smile so wide and affectionate it nearly makes him melt. 

“It is _adorable_ ,” she says, aiming the word particularly at Nebula -- because obviously when she looks at _him_ all she can think of is what a sexy beast he is. 

“Ugh.” Nebula scowls and rips off the hat, then glares at it as if it’s the hat’s fault that this happened. She’s mustering much less attitude than usual, though; her way of showing happiness that her sister is back, he’s pretty sure. 

“We’re hanging this picture,” Peter declares, still proudly rocking the hat. Gamora comes to sit down next to them, and he hurries to scoot over so she can squeeze between them. 

“I will rip it down,” Nebula says harshly. 

He waves his hand dismissively. “You love it.”

“Love is a foolish emotion,” says Nebula, though it sounds far more like habit than anything serious. He _knows_ she loves Gamora, has heard her say it recently, even. Still, Nebula insists, “You two are more than enough proof of that.”

“Yep,” Peter says lightly, and sticks his tongue out at her.

Nebula rolls her eyes. “Ugh. I am going to tell you your information and then I am going to leave.”

“No you aren’t,” Gamora says immediately, an edge in her voice now.

Nebula tenses too. “Yes I am.”

“I am not ready to hear it yet,” Gamora insists, though it’s about as lame as any of her lies. 

“You asked me to get it as soon as possible,” Nebula points out. “Surely you want to have it now.”

“No,” says Gamora. “I do not. Particularly not if it means you will leave.”

“And why is that?” asks Nebula, the triumphant glint back in her eyes. It’s clearly a challenge, intended to goad Gamora into competing with her, to trigger the perpetual power struggle between them -- started so many years ago by Thanos, and a wound the intervening years still haven’t quite managed to heal.

For a moment, the silence between them is deafening.

“Because,” says Gamora, and Peter recognizes this for exactly what it is: a concession to Nebula. A forfeit, for something far more important than winning. “Because _I want_ you to be here. Please.”

Nebula looks surprised again, and a bit skeptical. She eyes both of them; she clearly wasn’t expecting that kind of forthright answer, and now she doesn’t know what to do with it. Though he’s tempted to say something to fill the silence, Peter resists because he’s afraid anything he says will make Nebula close off. She’s already got her arms crossed tight over her chest. 

“That means I win,” she states, an edge of a challenge still in her voice.

Gamora sighs. “Yes, you win. I want to spend time with my sister, who I haven’t seen in weeks.” She puts her hand on Nebula’s forearm, not trying to pry them apart, just resting. 

Nebula doesn’t uncross them, but her face does soften. Marginally. He’s pretty sure.

“I will stay the rest of the day,” she says.

“A week,” Gamora counters without missing a beat. Peter presses his lips together to suppress a grin; this is far from the first time he’s listened to their sisterly banter, and he’s confident it won’t be the last. Probably not even the last time today. 

Nebula glares at her at this request, but Gamora doesn’t back down. She keeps her face even and open, staring steadily at her sister. 

Finally Nebula heaves a very dramatic sigh and says, “I will stay for a few days. That is it. I still have people to kill.” 

“Five days,” says Gamora, firmly.

Nebula rolls her eyes, as if this is the hardest thing she has ever done in her life. “Fine. I will stay for five days, even though it is _you_ who should be making concessions to _me_ , seeing as I just traipsed all across the galaxy to obtain information about your soul. Which you no longer seem to care about.”

“We did give you a hat,” Peter points out. “And we have more presents! Look!” He dips his hand into the bag of souvenirs again and digs out her keychain. 

“Yes,” Gamora says brightly. “It is a key chain. Which is a classic Terran possession.”

“To keep your keys,” Peter says helpfully.

Nebula looks back and forth between them, as though she’s suddenly awoken to find herself in a different dimension. “I have no keys.”

“No problem!” Peter says brightly. “Use it to keep the teeth of the enemies you’ve killed!” He realizes belatedly that she might actually do that. “No, don’t. That would be horrifying.”

She scoffs. “Do not worry about that. I have no plans to use this gaudy hunk of…” She trails off, squinting at the keychain as if seeing it for the first time. “Does this say Natalie?”

“It’s your Terran name!” Peter says proudly. 

She just stares at him, blankly and somehow also murderously at the same time. 

“Nevermind,” he murmurs, deciding there’s gonna be no winning on that one. He reaches back into the bag and pulls out the next gift he comes across: the t-shirt from the cryptid museum that reads _seek the truth_. “We got you this too!”

“Shirts like these are apparently common gifts on Terra,” Gamora explains.

“This looks like something _you_ would wear,” Nebula tells Peter disdainfully. 

“I have one too!” He grins. “We figured you might wanna cross off _the truth_ on yours and write _revenge_ or something.”

Nebula does that thing where she kinda sorta almost smiles, but schools her expression quickly back to her resting murder face. “That would make it marginally less hideous.” 

“Be sure you show me when you do,” says Peter. “So we can take another twin picture!” He offers her a hand for a high five. 

“Never,” Nebula deadpans.

He grins, still holding up his hand. “It’s a date.”

“You are married to my sister,” Nebula sniffs, shoving his hand away. 

“Yep!” he says brightly. “Not a _date_ date, a twins date! Wanna make up our own secret handshake?”

“Being married to my sister does not exempt you from being murdered,” says Nebula. 

“We have one final gift for you,” Gamora interrupts, apparently sensing the need to intervene before this can escalate any further. “If you would like us to give it to you now?”

“I don’t care,” says Nebula, caring very much, if the way she’s eyeing the souvenir bag is any indication.

“Then I will give it to you now.” Gamora reaches into the bag herself this time. She pulls out a figurine of a horse, the final souvenir they’d purchased at the Walmart in St. Charles.

Nebula stares at it, not choosing to comment yet.

“Do you remember the animals I told you about?” asks Gamora, her tone decidedly gentle. “The ones I thought you would like?”

“No,” says Nebula, in the stilted tone she uses when she’s obviously lying. She’s even worse at it than Gamora, if that’s possible.

“This is one of them,” Gamora says, ignoring the lie. “Apparently they are very strong and revered on Terra.” 

“They are,” Peter says, seeing that Nebula is eyeing it with actual interest. “My grandpa says they’re always very picky about who they like. We think they’d like you, though.” 

“And why is that?” Nebula asks with a scoff. She extends her hand, though, taking the figurine almost tentatively.

Gamora glances at him, hesitating. He knows she doesn’t want to share the futures she saw with anyone but him, at least not yet. So he jumps in and says, “Because you’re also very picky about who you like. And I am proud to be in that elite club.” 

“Do not be so confident about that,” Nebula says, but there’s no bite to it. She’s too busy examining the horse figurine, as if looking for flaws or things mock.

“Too late!” 

Nebula rolls her eyes but otherwise ignores him. “I do not see the big deal,” she sniffs after a bit, setting the figurine down very carefully on top of the T-shirt on the bed. 

“You’re welcome,” says Gamora, though not unkindly. She rests a hand on Nebula’s shoulder again, not quite an embrace, but definitely the same energy as one. “I hope you will consider my suggestion that you accompany us to Earth next time.”

“I have considered it,” says Nebula. “And I will not.”

Gamora smiles faintly. “We’ll see.”

“Do you want your information or not?” asks Nebula, apparently having reached her limit on tolerating positive emotions for now. 

“Yes,” says Gamora, clearly picking up on that too. She’s been learning how to work Nebula, how far to push her and when to stop. It doesn’t always work out, but she’s getting better and better at it. “Please tell me about the Watchers, and what you learned.”

“Well,” Nebula says, “to begin with, all of _your_ sources were useless. They knew nothing of the Stone. I am surprised you were ever able to find it, sister.”

“Yes,” Gamora allows, far more easily than Peter’s ever heard before. “You have bested me in finding sources. I acknowledge that.”

Nebula stares at her, taking that in. She doesn’t seem like she expected that response, but after a moment she smirks, taking it in stride. “Good. Because _my_ source knew everything you wanted to know.” 

“So you actually talked to one of those Watcher people?” Peter asks, unable to help himself. 

“No, I just flew by and waved,” Nebula says sarcastically. “Of course I spoke to him.” 

“How did you find him?” Gamora asks. She seems just as curious as he is — maybe more since she actually knew who the Watchers were before this — and in no particular hurry to get to the main information. If she wasn’t in such a good place compared to a few weeks ago, he’d be worried she’s just stalling out of fear. 

“It was not hard,” Nebula says dismissively. “I merely had to...persuade a few people who knew of him to tell me where he would be.” 

“Nebula,” Gamora says suspiciously. 

Nebula rolls her eyes. “They are alive.” Gamora continues staring her down. “And in one solid piece.” 

“Are they in pain?” asks Gamora, still refusing to break eye contact. 

Nebula sighs. “No. Unfortunately. As it turns out, the Watcher wanted to find me just as much as I wanted to find him. To prevent Stark from causing yet another apocalypse.”

“Right,” says Gamora. “He told us what you learned of the Stones.”

“Yes,” Nebula confirms. “So, I found him. In a pathetic little apartment not far from the Compound, in fact. In New York City.”

Peter feels it when Gamora tenses. “Really? _There_?” Better place or not, she clearly hasn’t forgiven the city for her experience in it.

Oblivious to the specifics of her reaction, Nebula nods. “Disgusting place. Also, you will not _believe_ what this all-powerful Watcher looked like.” She curls her lip into a sneer of disdain.

“What _did_ he look like?” Peter asks gamely, much more interested in that kind of minutia than he would have been if he didn’t already know Gamora’s silver had returned.

“He looked like a tiny, shriveled old Terran!” Nebula says incredulously. “White hair. White mustache. And _glasses_. Can you imagine having that sort of power and allowing yourself to look like _that_?”

“Maybe he _wanted_ to look like that,” Peter points out. “To look more like a Terran.”

“That is even worse,” Nebula says flatly. 

“I like the way Terrans look,” Gamora says, rubbing her hand over Peter’s arm and smiling affectionately at him. He straightens up with pride. 

Nebula makes a disgusted face to rival Rocket’s. “If you keep being gross I am not going to tell you the rest.” 

Gamora sighs but says, “Fine,” and takes her hand off his arm -- but not before giving it a squeeze. And she’s still sitting close enough to him for their thighs to touch. 

Peter sticks his tongue out at Nebula again. For a second, it seems like she’s tempted to do it back, or possibly to punch him. But then Gamora asks, “So what did he tell you?”

“To stop those idiots from destroying the Stones,” Nebula responds, with a tiny smirk that says she knows exactly what her sister meant. 

“ _After_ that,” Peter says. “What did he tell you about Gamora’s soul?”

Instead of answering right away, Nebula looks between them a few times, almost suspiciously. “You do not seem nearly as concerned about this as you were the last few times we spoke.” 

“We had a good trip,” says Peter, unsure of whether Gamora wants to share any more than that right now, especially because it might make Nebula resent the work she put in to get the answers.

Gamora nods. “It was very...healing.” She looks at Peter and smiles, her expression full of bliss. 

“Ugh,” says Nebula. “I don’t want to know what that’s a euphemism for.” Her lip even curls a bit.

“Why does it have to be a euphemism for anything?” asks Peter, waggling his eyebrows suggestively.

“Because it’s _you_.” She shakes her head. “Your soul is fine. And so is his, by the way. The Stone relinquished both of you because you sacrificed yourselves not to possess its power, but to save each other.” She sniffs disdainfully. “As if we needed any further proof of how disgusting you two are. Congratulations, the great cosmic powers are aware of your gross love.”

Peter blinks, this simple yet amazing answer momentarily stunning him. He glances at Gamora and, just as when Stark told them about the Stones being indestructible, she looks much less surprised than he is. She’s grinning, actually. 

“That makes sense,” she says, in a tone that would be matter-of-fact if she didn’t also sound so pleased. “The Stone can determine the nature of a sacrifice.” 

“Babe,” Peter says, the words finally sinking in. “ _Babe_. The fairy tales were right! True love really can save the day!”

“Oh, god,” Nebula mutters. “I shouldn’t have told you.”

“Our love is a superpower!” He continues, holding his hand up for a high five. Gamora obliges with a gleeful laugh. 

“It is,” she says. Rather than taking her hand away after she slaps his palm, she clasps them together and kisses the back of his. She’s still smiling but more serious now, reverent. “Thank you, Peter. You have saved me more times than I can count.”

Nebula rests her hand on her forehead and closes her eyes as if she’s suddenly got a migraine. “I hate both of you.”

“Thank you,” says Gamora. “For getting the information. That you were willing to go to such lengths for me means a great deal.” Then she leans in and kisses Nebula on the cheek.

Nebula recoils instinctively, though she looks more shocked than affronted. She brings one hand up to touch the spot, as though checking to see whether it’s somehow physically changed. Peter finds himself reminded of Gamora, years ago, when they’d first been getting to know one another. He thinks of the way she’d flinched when he’d put the headphones on her for the first time, the way she’d frozen the first time he’d given her a hug. 

“I am alive because of you,” says Nebula, after a very long moment in which she seems to be selecting each word. “I haven’t forgotten that. I will not forget that.”

Gamora nods, holding her gaze. “Then do me a favor and take care of yourself sometimes. Thanos is _gone_ , Nebula. There is more work to be done, but we can live for more than just vengeance. In fact -- sometimes I think that living for ourselves might even be the _best_ revenge.”

Nebula’s lip curls even more dramatically than before. “Gross.” She glares at Peter. “You have made her so gross.”

“We make each other gross,” Peter says proudly. 

Gamora remains serious, though. “Please, Nebula; consider it. At least for the next few days while you stay with us. Take a real break.” 

Nebula lets out a long and tortured sigh, standing up suddenly. “I will...think about thinking about it.”

“That’s promising,” Peter mutters. 

“Where are you going?” Gamora asks, poorly concealing the worry in her voice. Peter assumes it’s the same concern he’s got all the sudden: that now that Nebula has given them the information, she’s going to leave after all. 

Nebula stops halfway to the door and says, in a _this should be obvious_ tone, “To see if the rest of your little team is being less gross than you are.”

“Oh.” Gamora was about to stand up, but now she hesitates, halfway off the bed. Peter keeps his seat; he never knows which way this is gonna go with Nebula. 

After a second of nobody saying anything, Nebula rolls her eyes. “Are you idiots coming or are you just going to sit there?” she says, before turning and heading for the door, this time not stopping. 

Gamora’s face melts into a smile. “We’re coming,” she says, taking his hand and standing up. 

“Right behind you, Sis!” Peter yells. 

Nebula groans and walks faster.

* * *

Gamora makes a decidedly undignified noise when Peter scoops her off her feet a few steps away from the door to their quarters. He’s not going to think of it as a squeal, because Gamora doesn’t _squeal._ But it most definitely involves a sharp intake of breath, followed by a high-pitched noise he’s absolutely certain she’d deny making if called out. Just like she does when he calls her adorable, which she _is_ at the moment. And always.

“Peter!” She swats lightly at his shoulder, though it’s clear that she doesn’t actually want to be released. “What are you doing?”

“Carrying you over the threshold!” he says gallantly, as though he doesn’t know she’s about to ask several well-justified questions about how much this actually complies with the tradition. “Because that’s what newlyweds are supposed to do, and that’s what we are!”

“We have been married for several days,” she points out. “And we have been into our quarters several times today, without you carrying me.”

“Being married for a few days doesn’t make us not newlyweds!” he informs her. “We’re gonna be newlyweds for like, at least a year. And we weren’t alone when we came in here before. We are now; hence, threshold.”

“You did this at your grandfather’s house as well,” Gamora says, but she wraps her arms around his neck, pulling herself even closer to him. 

“We weren’t actually outside the room, though,” he says. “Besides, we have to do it in every room we’re gonna sleep in.”

“While we are newlyweds?” she asks. 

“Forever!” Peter says. They’ve reached the edge of the bed now, but she’s made no move to unwrap her arms, so he holds onto her for a bit longer. “Aw crap, we didn’t do it at Stark’s!”

“Next time we visit,” she promises. 

“Deal!” he says, finally setting her down. 

She keeps one of her arms around his neck to pull him down with her, so he’s bent over her as she’s half-lying, half-sitting on the bed, faces mere inches apart. 

Peter raises an eyebrow. “Want something?”

Gamora takes that exactly as he’s intended it: a challenge. She hooks a leg up around his hip and uses it to knock him off balance, rolling them over so that he’s pinned to the bed with her on top of him. Her hair is brushing his cheek, and he runs his fingers through it before tucking it behind her ear. Then he reaches up to pull her mini braid back out of the curtain of curls, caressing its silver bead with his thumb.

“Are there any...other things we need to do in the rooms we’ll sleep in?” she asks, leaning down to kiss him before he can actually answer.

Peter mumbles into her mouth anyway, mostly for effect. That makes her laugh, which is the reaction he was hoping for, even though it causes her to break the kiss prematurely so that she can get air. Really, he’s probably the most selfless husband in the history of the universe.

“What was that?” she asks, her face still hovering over his, smirk dancing on her lips. 

“Kissing,” he says firmly. “For sure. And we’re definitely gonna need to do a lot more of this pinning me stuff.” He lifts his arms up above his head as if she needs a demonstration. 

“Oh, are we?” she practically purrs. “Is that a Terran wedding tradition?”

“No,” he admits. “But it’s a Peter and Gamora tradition. That we should totally carry on to be a Mr. and Mrs. Peter and Gamora tradition.” 

“That is true.” She runs a finger lightly up one of his arms, making him shiver, before leaning down to kiss him again. 

It goes on just long enough for him to really get into it; he’s about to un-self-pin one of his arms to wrap around her when she abruptly breaks the kiss and sits up with a teasing smile. “Soon. For now, we need to unpack and put all of our wedding gifts away.” 

Then she rolls off of him and stands up. 

“Babe,” he groans, but he’s smiling. “My wife is such a tease.” 

“You always seem to enjoy it,” she says with a wink. 

“That I do.” He stands up too, following her easily. He’s not the most organized person around, but he knows Gamora’s preference for unpacking as soon as possible. She wants her home to feel like a home, and part of that is not living out of a suitcase.

“What’s first?” asks Peter, letting her take the lead.

“Presents,” says Gamora, “since they’re just in a box.” 

She picks up the blender from Drax and carries it over to their small kitchen area, setting it on top of the miniature refrigerator. Peter feels the familiar swell of pride he still gets every time he looks at this part of their quarters. Gamora had -- and probably still _does_ \-- viewed it as the height of extravagant luxury to keep their own private kitchenette, stocked with candy, chocolate, and other prized items the others aren’t allowed to share. 

“These by the sink,” says Peter, handing her the towels.

Candy Land goes on the table in the sitting area, though he’s sure it won’t stay there for long, if the amount of fun they all had playing it in the afternoon is any indication. 

When he turns back to see what the next item is, though, he finds Gamora standing frozen in front of her vanity table, the earrings she’d worn at their wedding held loosely in one hand.

“What is it?” he asks, crossing the room in barely less than a run. He sees what it is when he gets close, though: the beads she’d taken out of her mini braid just before her shower on the day they’d gotten Asgard’s distress signal. The ones she’d never had time to put back in.

“Oh,” he says, wincing and cursing himself internally, though he doesn’t really know what for; for not sneaking in here without her to destroy all signs of their life Before the Stone, he supposes. 

“I didn’t make these,” she says softly, picking one of them up and holding it delicately in her palm. She might read the confusion in his silence, because before he can even ask, she explains, “In the Stone, I mean. When I made shadows of our room, I tried to remember every little detail, to get everything just as it was. But I never remembered these.” 

“Mora,” he breathes. He rests a hand on her shoulder, struggling with what else to say. It’s difficult to tell what exactly she’s feeling right now, her eyes fixed on the bead. “You can’t expect to remember every little detail.”

Her laugh at that is short, not exactly bitter but not really amused either. “I had a lifetime. I thought I had remembered everything.” 

He rubs her back and she finally shakes herself and looks up at him, her expression softening. “I’m not upset that I didn’t remember. It’s just...you know I never expected to be here again. To see the real thing.” 

“I'm sorry,” Peter breathes nonsensically, aware that he's really only apologizing because it gives him some illusion of control. Being somehow to blame for that pain is less awful than admitting that it may have been entirely unavoidable. 

He thinks of the first time she'd mentioned this feeling on the Benatar, and how he'd changed the subject then. He thinks of hiding in the bathroom and imagining losing her, of somehow being enough of a fool to believe it was better to shut her out than to share these feelings with her. 

“For what?” she asks, as though she's aware of his thoughts -- which she probably is, at this point.

Instead of answering in words, Peter shakes his head, takes the bead from her hand, and wraps her in a hug. She goes still for only the briefest second before sliding her arms around his waist, holding on tightly as he rocks both of them to a half-remembered slow beat. 

“I'm sorry the Stone is still--around somewhere,” he says finally, when it feels possible to speak again. 

“That is not your fault,” Gamora says, half-muffled against his shoulder. She shifts, pressing her forehead to his neck, cheek against his chest. 

He closes his eyes briefly, soaking up the contact. “I know. I’m still sorry.”

She makes a humming noise, and for a while he thinks that’s going to be her only response. But after a while of just standing here holding each other -- which he’s fully content to do for at least the next few hours -- she says, “I don’t think it’s such a bad thing”

“You don’t?” he asks, surprised. He knows she’d reacted well to the news, but she didn’t seem happy about it either. She strokes his side soothingly with one hand, and he realizes he’s suddenly tensed. He makes a conscious effort to relax. 

“It would be nice if they could be destroyed,” she says. “So we could be sure this won’t happen again. But I meant what I said when Stark told us: the real threat is gone. And the Stones themselves are not evil. They exist for a purpose.” 

“They do?” asks Peter, surprised. To be fair, he _heard_ what Stark said about how destroying them would destabilize the universe, but he’d been more focused on the implications of that than anything else. “Did they...um...tell you?”

She makes a movement that’s half a shrug, but not enough to put any space between them, for which he’s grateful. “In a way, I guess. The Soul Stone isn’t where the dead reside, but...I think it does play a role in the integrity of those realms. I am not sure I would want it to be destroyed.”

At that, Peter does lean back a bit, taking her by the shoulders so that he can see her face. He has a moment of fear in which he wonders if she really _has_ somehow become connected to the Stone, then dismisses it. He believes Nebula. But more than that, he _knows_ that Gamora is herself. Still… “It tortured you!”

“I am not sure that it did,” she says carefully. “My time in it _was_ hell, but...But I am not sure the Stone would have chosen that. The Stone holds tremendous power, but lacks the ability to control it independently. What I experienced...That was Thanos, and his use of the Stone to cause suffering.”

“I guess,” he says, reluctant to let go of his hatred of the Stone. He’s not sure he can forgive anything that had a part to play in Gamora’s pain. 

“It communicated with me,” she reminds him. “It asked for my help in defeating Thanos. And it allowed us both to go free. I thought that it _wanted_ to take your soul in place of mine when you saved me, but it recognized the nature of your sacrifice and let us both live.”

“That’s true,” he admits, relaxing. Her hands are both stroking his sides now and he has to smile; he’s supposed to be the one comforting her here, but of course she never misses a chance to do the same for him. “I still think it’s kind of a dick, though.”

She laughs softly. “But not one hundred percent?”

“Not quite,” he says. “So I guess it can live.” He lifts one hand from her shoulder to cup her cheek, rubbing her skin back and forth with his thumb. “Are you all right?”

“Yes,” she says, her smile sweet and gentle. “I am home. And I have you.” 

Peter makes a sound that’s half a laugh and half a sob, pulling her close and burying his face in her hair. She’s solid and warm and strong against him, the polar opposite of everything about the Stone, everything in his nightmares. Here, in their home, with her arms around his waist and her ring on his finger, it feels like the ghosts might finally, _finally_ be beginning to fade. 

He’s smiling when he pulls away, but Gamora still looks quiet and contemplative. It’s not quite enough to send him back into concern, doesn’t break through the warmth that seems to be wrapped around him. But it is clear that they still have more to discuss.

“What?” he asks gently, meeting her eyes.

Gamora shakes her head. “It’s just...If my soul was never in the Stone, then why did I lose my silver?” She’s quiet for a beat, then adds hastily, “You know it isn’t because my feelings for you ever changed, right?”

“I know,” he says with full confidence. He can’t believe he ever doubted it, even for a second. “I _don’t_ know about the silver, but my best guess…” He looks around as if he’s suspicious, checking over his shoulders, before he whispers, “I think your sister was right.” 

She smiles a little at his antics, but mostly she looks confused. “What do you mean?” 

“Remember when we were talking to her in the car?” he asks. “Right before we got married?” His hand strays to her mini-braid as he says it, unable to help touching the silver bead at the end, one of the physical reminders that it really happened. 

“Of course,” Gamora says softly, turning her head to kiss his wrist. 

“She said it made sense that you weren’t feeling totally yourself,” he reminds her. “Because of all the shit you’d just been through. Well--she didn’t word it exactly like that. But that was the gist. And I think she was right. You needed time to heal.” 

“Well,” she says slowly, considering, “she is not wrong. I _did_ need to heal. And I _do_ feel more like myself, but -- But I am _not_ healed entirely.”

“Of course not!” Peter says immediately. Her point doesn’t quite sink in, because he’s so eager to reassure her. “You -- You were in hell, babe. Basically for an eternity, at least from your perspective. You’re _amazing_ but it’s gonna take a lot more than some tacos and a couple of weeks!”

“There was also bacon. And s’mores.” She shakes her head, but there’s a little smile of affection on her face now. “But that wasn’t my point. I _know_ that I am still healing. But I am also silver again.”

“Yeah,” says Peter, understanding now. “Because that part of you is _so strong_ , Mora. The first time, you were silver before you even knew that you could be, right?”

She laughs and it’s the slightest bit watery. “You’re right. You’re right, it fits.”

“It just likes to appear when you least expect it!” he says. “When did you first get the silver again?” He asks the question innocently, as if he doesn’t know the answer already; as if he doesn’t hold it dear to his heart like a treasure. 

She gives him a look, but she’s smiling. This isn’t the first time he’s asked her to tell him, and she humors him every time. 

“On Xandar,” she says softly. They’ve avoided mentioning the planet for the past couple weeks whenever possible, but this time it brings up pleasant memories. “When we were staying in the hotel after defeating Ronan. I came out of my room and saw you asleep on the couch.”

“And you saw me with my mouth hanging open.” He grins. “And you fell for me instantly.”

“I had already fallen,” she corrects him. “It just made me--realize, I suppose. Or made my body catch up with what my mind already knew.” 

“Not the other way around?” he asks, this time a genuine question. He’d never heard her say it quite that way before. 

She shakes her head. “The silver is a reaction my body has, yes, but it is still controlled by my mind. That’s what my people believed, anyway.” 

“But if you didn’t know that you could,” says Peter, “does that mean it was like...your subconscious?”

“Yes and no?” says Gamora. “It’s not as though I wasn’t...experiencing feelings.”

Peter’s grin turns a bit dopey at that. “For me! You _did_ almost kiss me on Knowhere.” He becomes aware, dimly, that it’s the first time in weeks he’s said or even thought _that_ word without it being immediately followed by a wave of panic. Now, though, he thinks about Gamora smiling, the glory of space behind her, caught up in the moment and leaning in.

“Yes, feelings for you,” she says indulgently, bringing him back to the present. “I just didn’t know what to make of them at first. So first I blamed you for trying to manipulate me. Then I told myself it was not something I could have. Then…”

“Then you were silver,” Peter supplies, one hand going instinctively to her abdomen, his thumb slipping beneath the hem of her shirt to brush the skin there.

“Then I was silver,” she echoes. “Though it still took me a while to fully accept it. And to take the risk of acting on it.”

“I think you did pretty good,” he says. “Timing wise. Sam and Diane took way longer to get together than we did. Han and Leia too. So basically we did better than every other couple ever.” 

“It was probably the humility,” she says dryly. 

“Nah.” He waves his hand dismissively. “Drax has got all that.”

She laughs fondly. Then her eyes widen. “Hey. We’re in space now.”

“Um, yeah,” he says, giving her a look. “Did you just notice?”

She rolls her eyes and playfully shoves his shoulder, but stays close to him. “No. But I did just remember something: Stark said that tablet he gave us would work once we were in space.”

Peter gasps, a wave of joy and excitement rushing through him so fast it nearly makes him lightheaded. “You’re right! Oh my god, babe, I can finally show you Star Wars!” 

“Yes,” she says with a laugh, as he pulls away from her to run for their bags. “That is what I was thinking.” 

He fumbles around with one of the bags, so excited he temporarily forgets how zippers work, but finally he pulls the tablet out with a triumphant flourish. He’s half expecting Gamora to change her mind, to tell him they have to finish unpacking first. But she doesn’t, apparently willing to put that preference aside for the sake of Star Wars. 

Instead, she moves to look over his shoulder as he opens the tablet up. “You know, I am surprised we managed to spend several weeks on Earth without you showing it to me there.”

“I know!” he agrees, examining the tablet. There are no instructions on the thing, but he sees immediately that it has the right type of port to connect to the ship’s system. Nebula must have been responsible for that part. “I thought about it a few times, but...Star Wars is Star Wars, you know? Your first time’s gotta be great. And we weren’t exactly in a great place for most of our time on Earth.”

He takes the tablet over to the comm array in the corner and plugs it in, just like he would with any other new device he wants to connect to the ship’s system. He has a moment of doubt, but the thing hums to life, a progress bar marching across the screen as it talks to the Quadrant. 

“That is true,” says Gamora. “I am in a much better state to enjoy it now than I would have been--before.”

“Plus!” says Peter, practically brimming over with excitement, “Star Wars in space! Do you have any idea how psyched I would have been for this as a kid?”

“I am guessing,” she says warmly, “about as ‘psyched’ as you are now.”

“You’re so smart, babe,” says Peter, then does a fist pump when the tablet’s screen indicates that it’s fully integrated with the ship’s system, and prepared for voice command. 

He scoops Gamora up again and carries her, laughing, to the bed. Setting her down, he does a little hop over her, settling on the other side, then whistling the Star Wars theme. She shakes her head for the umpteenth time but she’s smiling wider than ever, radiant, as though the essence of her silver has somehow momentarily permeated every fiber of her being -- and maybe his, too. 

“Okay, weird Stark Tablet!” says Peter. “Please show us Star Wars!”

The first thing it does is play the theme back at him, loud enough to make him jump and then applaud. Then the AI from it speaks in a familiar voice, and the very last piece clicks into place:

“Hello to you too, weird Mr. Star-Lord.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And that’s a wrap!!!!! We wanna say a huge thank you to everyone who read and commented and left kudos!! We have loved writing this and we hope you loved reading it! If you did, please let us know, we really do appreciate all our comments!! 
> 
> And if you’re gonna miss these dummies, don’t worry: we’re already 4k into another fic in this universe, so stay tuned ;)

**Author's Note:**

> If you liked it, please let us know!! You can also come say hi to us on tumblr [here](https://gamoraspeter.tumblr.com/) and [here!](http://enigma731.tumblr.com/)


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